Total eclipse
by Krokkie
Summary: Hardcastle and McCormick have made deadly enemies, out to destroy them. Very quickly events take a turn for the worst. Death stares McCormick in the face, and Hardcastle's worst nightmare becomes reality.


TOTAL ECLIPSE

by

Krokkie

Disclaimer: I do not own these stunning characters, Hardcastle and McCormick – I dearly wish I did, though! This story was not written for profit, either. It is too crazy to be published anyway!

This story was born within the twists and turns of my crazy imagination. Strap yourself in – it's gonna be a _very_bumpy ride! All the mistakes in the story could be interpreted as ignorance and a limited vocabulary since I am not an English speaking person, and I do not live in the States, but in a really crazy (and terribly dangerous) country called South Africa. This is my first attempt at fanfic, so please keep that in mind when reading this story. Many thanks to Owlcroft for being my beta, you were terrific!

1

"McCormick!" Hardcastle yelled as he looked for his morning paper yet again. _What's with the kid, why does he always have to grab the paper and disappear with it into the gatehouse?_

"Mcc-Coormick!" He yelled again, even louder, and stomped into the gatehouse.

McCormick, after hearing the judge holler the first time, quickly sat on the paper, while he was eating his cereal.

"Mornin', Judge, what's buggin' you today? You sound a little chagrined. Had a sleepless night?" McCormick asked innocently, munching his rice crispies.

"Cut that out, gimme that!" Hardcastle growled, yanking the paper from under McCormick's backside with such force that the paper tore in half.

"Heeyy- " "Arrgg, look what you've done now, you stupid kid, you've ruined my paper!" Hardcastle bellowed.

"Look what _I _did? What a joke!" McCormick yelled, and pulled the remains of the paper from under his backside.

"I could just as well throw it in the trash now, I'm not gonna read ribbons! Why do you always have to nab my paper before I could lay my eyes on it? You've been here for, what, two years, and you still do this to me! What am I gonna do with you?" The judge shouted, and swatted McCormick against the back of his head with the remains of his paper.

"Oww! Gee, Judge, it's just a paper, relax! I'll go and get you a new one, okay?" McCormick laughed, trying to ward off more blows.

"Naaah, don't bother! I'll get one myself, and I'll read it myself," Hardcastle grumbled, tossing the torn paper onto the floor, "just go and get that filter for the pool you've been forgetting about for three days in a row now. Looks like your'e getting soft in that muddled head of yours. It's all that hair, it is suffocating your brain!"

Hardcastle turned and stomped out again, leaving McCormick pulling a face at the judge.

"Jackass! Why does he always have to read the paper first, it's not like I was gonna eat the damn thing after I'm done! Hell, most of the times it's such a crappy read, anyone dumb enough to eat it would die from verbal diarrhoea! Any survivors would need a shrink." With a shake of his head and a sigh, he picked the torn pieces of the paper up, and threw them into the rubbish bin. He then proceeded to the mailbox to retrieve the mail.

2

Hardcastle was on his way to his desk, when he heard the screen door slam.

"Darn kid, messes up my papers, slams my doors, forgets his chores," Hardcastle groused under his breath.

"Mail call!" McCormick announced loudly, tossing the mail onto the desk, "same crap, different day, huh!"

"In your case it would be same day, different crap," Hardcastle snapped. "You're a real riot, Judge," McCormick added, plopping himself down in front of the TV, looking for the remote control.

"Bills, bills and more bills," Hardcastle complained, then picking up an unmarked envelope.

"Huh. What's this?" There was a single sheet of paper inside the envelope, with a very disturbing typewritten message on it: _Hardcase, I hold you personally responsible for the death of my son. Do you know what the death of a son could do to a father? But then again, a piece of gristle like you would never know, unless someone shows you how it feels when your heart gets ripped from your chest. You need to be taught the real meaning of pain and suffering!_

The message sent a dagger of pain through Hardcastle's heart, and the hand holding the page balled into a fist, crumpling the note. What the hell – who would send such a cruel note? The death of his own son in 1972 had shattered his heart, leaving a wound that would never really heal. He stood there, speechless, all colour drained from his face. The memory of his son, killed needlessly in Nam, came flooding back to him.

"Hey Hardcase, where'd you hide the remote? Under the toilet seat, or in the fridge?" McCormick asked, still searching for the missing item in question.

Then he noticed the expression of disbelief and misery on the Judge's face. "Judge, what's the matter? You're as white as a sheet! You all right?" McCormick asked worriedly, going to the judge, touching his arm.

"Huh …?" The judge looked up at McCormick, a vacant expression in his eyes.

"What's wrong, Judge, talk to me. You're scaring me, man." Then Hardcastle seemed to snap out of whatever was the matter with him, and finally found his voice back.

"Nothing important, just another bill," he said in a choked voice, trying to hide the note. Then McCormick noticed the typewritten page in the judge's hand, and took it before he could put the note away.

"What's this?" McCormick asked, and read the note. "Oh, hell. This is bad. Who in the-"

"Hey, what is it with you, if you can't read my paper, you have to read my mail?" The judge growled, snatching the note out of McCormick's hand, shoving the kid backwards, rougher than was necessary.

A startled "oof" escaped from McCormick, and he almost lost his balance. His eyes were wide and startled.

"Oww, what was that for? You still mad about that stupid paper? I just wanted to know why you suddenly looked as if you've seen a ghost, that's all", McCormick said angrily, rubbing his chest, "no need for you to take it out on-"

"Oh shut up, McCormick. Get outta here, go and do your chores. Just get out of my face," Hardcastle spat out, his deep blue eyes stormy.

"What the hell … I'm not the one who wrote that note, you know, I was only trying to help-"

"I don't want your help," Hardcastle barked, getting madder by the second, "just leave me alone!" "Judge, please, I'm-"

"What you are is a pain in the butt, McCormick! Get out!" The judge gusted, turning red in the face.

The stinging words made McCormick look like a beaten stray dog, but Milt was so badly shaken by that note that he was beyond caring.

"Fine, whatever you say. Got to fetch a filter for that damned pool of yours anyway, before my last brain cell dies of suffocation," McCormick said angrily, turned on his heels and left the judge standing in the middle of the room, thunderstruck.

Milt went to his desk, and sagged down into his chair. He covered his face in his hands and uttered a shuddery sigh. He felt like a heel talking to McCormick in such a humiliating way. The words were out before he could stop them, he just lost all control over his temper – again! He would go and apologise to the kid, he just needed to get over the shock. He took the note and stared at it again. What kind of a sick, twisted maniac would send him such a note? Nobody knows better than the Honorable Judge Milton C. Hardcastle himself, that no words could describe the pain a father feels when he has to bury his son. Little did he know that his heart was about to be ripped out of his chest for a second time …

3

"You called for us?" Terrence Bauer and Larry Cook entered Dr. Alan Lesnar's office on the fourth floor at the Z.K. Matthews clinic in Culver City.

"Yes, do come inside, gentlemen." Dr. Lesnar was a very tall, imposing man, in his late fifties, with gray-black hair. He showed them their seats in front of his desk, "I believe my assistant, Jimmy Masters has given you all the details regarding the Honourable Milton C. Hardcastle, and our plan of action."

"Yes, we've been briefed, but, I've also heard that those guys, Hardcastle and that McCormick guy that's always around him, are quite hard to take down. They have a reputation a mile long," Bauer said, "and I think that old dude might guess who is behind that note I've put in his mailbox last night."

"Oh, Mr. Bauer, he might eventually know who sent that note, but by then, the death of my son would be avenged. At least I won't be denied that satisfaction. Hardcastle is going to pay dearly for sending my son to an early grave," Dr. Lesnar continued.

"But doc, do you really think that by killing McCormick, it would matter that much to the old bastard, since they are not related or anything? What exactly is the nature of their relationship?" Cook asked.

"He might be the old Judge's li'l bed bug for all I know. Real pretty kid, I've been told, you sure that you want to kill him? Could get a lot of dough for him in the East, as a rich old sheik's little plaything. I've got a lotta serious contacts up there I know that Sheik Abdurrahman Ijaz is looking for new merchandise," Bauer suggested, while Cook snorted laughter. Lesnar gave him a look that would wilt a fake cactus.

"No, there is another way of making even more money out of this; Masters discussed this with you. And, I've done my homework on these two. They're as straight as they come. This McCormick seems to mean a lot to the old guy, he may even think of the kid as his son, and having no wife or children, the old buzzard has got nobody else. How that ex-con could stand it to be living with him is beyond me, anyway. No, gentlemen, this would hurt him where it matters. If it weren't for him, my son would not have died by his own hand. My son was all I had left in life, drunken fool or not, and I want Hardcastle to suffer just like I am."

"This plan of yours is a little elaborate, in my opinion, and plans like that often leave room for error. I think maybe we should try Bauer's idea," Cook suggested.

"I'm not paying you to think, Cook. This plan is foolproof. It will have a more permanent, damaging effect on the judge. Death is final, there are no maybes or ifs. Nobody would be caught if we do this right. And besides, I am a top surgeon, a specialist in my field, my record is impeccable. My contacts are many and very trustworthy, our other little, er, shall we say, sideline operations have been very successfully carried out during the past two years. My team will take care of all the little details."

"So when do you want us to put the plan into action?" Bauer asked.

"No better time than right now. Before the end of the day, I want Hardcastle's heart roasting on a spit!" The doctor said, with something so sinister in his voice it made Bauer's skin crawl, "Don't fail me, for I do not take kindly to losers. Get me that kid, your lives depend on it."

Cook looked at Bauer, and shivered inwardly. Alan Lesnar is a maniac. His eyes were as black as midnight in hell, and if looks could kill, his would. Anyone who screws up, ends up as toast. Even the crime bosses in L.A. are wary of him. He has contacts across the globe.

"It's a done deal, doc. We're professionals; your son would testify to that if he could, may he rest in peace, we never disappointed him," Bauer assured the doctor.

"That's why I hired you two. You have your job cut out for you. Now, the hour grows late, you should be on your way," Dr Lesnar said, showing his new employees the door.

4

"The stupid kid, the pain in the butt, yeah, that's me! The old donkey should really wake up and smell the coffee," McCormick muttered to himself as he marched off to the gatehouse to get his car keys, "McCormick, the 24-hour-a-day scapegoat for everything that goes wrong in his life. This stinks!"

He slammed the door as he left to go and fetch that dratted filter for the pool. He knew that Hardcastle was still very sensitive when the death of his son was mentioned. That was something he never talked about, a forbidden topic. Whoever sent that note really tore that old wound wide open. Still, that outburst was totally unexpected and the harsh words had stung.

"I know I'm not a substitute for his son, hell, I would probably never measure up anyway. Well, whatever. Since when do my feelings count around here? Old goat is clearly in a good mood today," McCormick grumbled to himself, shaking his head.

He got into the Coyote, and drove off, tires squealing on the driveway. As McCormick was about to turn onto the main road, he didn't notice the gray sedan on the opposite side of the highway, making a u-turn. He was still fuming over the heated argument that just broke out without a warning. He did not notice the sedan that was following him at a distance …

5

Hardcastle heard the roar of the Coyote's engine as McCormick peeled out of the driveway. He would apologise to the young man when he returned. He knew the stinging words were uncalled for, and he would tell McCormick just that. It had just been that the deep wound left by his son's death was opened up by that note. Unfortunately McCormick was once again the one that he had taken it out on. It was also time to talk to McCormick about his son, about the good times they had as a family. Maybe he would even take out the old family picture album, and share some of his memories with McCormick. The kid was becoming like family to him anyway. Perhaps it was time to tell him so. But the business about the note was serious. It looked suspiciously like a threat of some kind, and Hardcastle decided to pay Frank Harper a visit at the precinct.

"I'll have the guys run some prints on this," Frank said, after he read the crumpled note, "any idea who could have sent this?"

"I'm drawing a blank. This is a pretty disturbing note, Frank. If I lay my hands on this maniac, I'll knock his head off," Hardcastle said angrily.

"Yep, this is bad. It is definitely a threat, someone's out to get you. But who do you think would blame you for his son's death?"

"Dunno. I've been blamed for the death of several people over the past thirty-odd years, despite the fact that the law finally caught up with them." Hardcastle bit his lip and frowned, deep in thought.

"Did you show this to McCormick?" Frank asked. "Yeah, McCormick saw it, too," Hardcastle sighed.

"Who does he think might have sent it? By the way, where is he?"

"Well, he took off, on some errand … we had an argument. This note gave me such a jolt to the system, and I kinda took it out on him," Milt confessed, looking rather upset about it.

"I can just imagine that, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know, you should just open up to him and tell him how you feel, Milt. You guys are the best of friends. I know it hurts when you think of your family that you lost, but it can be really unhealthy to never talk about it, you know? It makes the pain a lot more bearable to share it with someone close to you," Frank advised his long-time friend.

"Been thinking about that myself. It's just that I could never get that far, something was always holding me back."

"But not talking to McCormick about your feelings and your family might mean that you don't trust him, and it shows."

"The kid knows that he could trust me; hell, I trust him, he's earned that over the years."

"Then he has also earned the right to know how you feel. He's got a busy mouth on him, but he does respect your feelings, you know."

"Trouble is, many times I don't respect his," Hardcastle confessed again.

"That's the trouble, all right," Frank added, "but to get back to that note, sounds like somebody with a red-hot poker in his butt is after you, or-"

"You think he could be after McCormick, too?" Hardcastle wondered.

"Maybe. I could arrange for some of my men to guard your house, until we can get to the bottom of this," Frank suggested.

6

McCormick parked the Coyote near the entrance of the Do It Yourself section of the Homemart store to collect the filter for the pool that Hardcastle had been grousing about for nearly a week. The gray sedan, after following him at a safe distance, was parked behind the Coyote just as McCormick entered the store. Cook and Bauer were waiting inside the car, going through their plans to capture and kidnap McCormick. Terrence Bauer was a tall, heavily built man in his forties, with graying hair. His friend Larry Cook was balding, in his late thirties, short, but muscle-bound.

"McCormick never saw us. Very good. You have the syringe with the tranquilizer ready?" Bauer told Cook.

"Hope he doesn't put up a fight. We will be attracting a crowd. This is a rather busy section of Camden street," Cook voiced his opinion.

"We better hope he falls for the trick, otherwise ol' doctor death will have us cut off our own bloody ears and eat 'em for lunch," Bauer groused.

"That old bastard is as crazy as a rabid rat. Who would have thought he would have felt anything for that two timing loser of a son of his? A real spineless chicken, poor li'l Johnny. Couldn't take the heat. When that interfering old judge busted one of his daddy's drug running operations open, he goes and swallows a bullet," Cook responded.

"I don't blame him, the poor idiot; must have done it out of fear of what daddy dearest would do to him, once he was found to be the weak link. The kid was drinking like a fish, and had a loose lip. Let something slip to that blonde bimbo he was always hanging out with. She was busted along some of the other fools the kid was hirin'," Bauer continued.

"Daddy is veeery upset about that. He would use his contacts inside to get rid of them. Trouble is, the kid was all the old devil had left. His wife divorced him years ago, and, as far as I know, there are no other children," Cook answered.

"Lucky old gal. Heard that she fled the country years ago," Bauer said.

"I'd have fled too. Heard from Johnny once, that he threatened to kill her, slowly, while she was watching. Took Johnny from her, and raised him himself. Too bad the poor SOB never had his father's nerve," Cook responded, shaking his head.

McCormick finally appeared at the doorway, with a package in his hand.

"There he is," Cook said, "almost feel sorry for the poor kid."

"Too bad for him, he's gotta follow the doctor's orders," Bauer smirked as he got out of the car.

He opened the hood and pretended to be fiddling around with something inside the engine, pasting a frustrated look onto his face. As McCormick walked towards the Coyote, he noticed the man under the hood of his car, muttering something unintelligible. He put the pool filter onto the seat of his car, and went over to the sedan.

"You need some help with that?" McCormick asked Bauer, pointing at the engine.

"Well, maybe I could, you know. Damn thing won't start. Could be the battery, or the starter motor or some other damn thing," Bauer whined, pointing at the engine, distracting McCormick's attention so he wouldn't notice Cook, who was slowly and quietly approaching them, with the syringe in his hand.

"Let's have a look then, and see if the battery is indeed a flattery," McCormick began, and bent down under the hood to look at the battery, "if you could turn on the light switch for me, we c-"

Before McCormick could say another word, Cook grabbed him from behind, with his arm locked tightly around his neck.

"Wha-," he choked out, as his air supply was cut off.

Cook dragged him to the side of the sedan, ready to inject him with the tranquilizer. Bauer quickly slammed the hood shut, ready to lend a hand and make short work of McCormick, who was struggling fiercely to free himself, his eyes huge, his face turning red.

"Hell, this guy is strong!" Cook cursed, unable to get the opportunity to jab McCormick with the needle in his neck.

"Hold him, you fool!" Bauer growled, and slammed his fist into McCormick's midsection.

The air escaped from McCormick in a strangled "oof" and he doubled over. Bauer's fist connected to McCormick's jaw. He went down, with Cook still trying to subdue him.

"Gimme that, and hold him still, idiot!" Bauer barked as he grabbed the syringe from Cook and jabbed McCormick in the neck with it, injecting the tranquillizer into his bloodstream. The effect of that strong cocktail was almost immediate. McCormick's struggles abruptly ceased, and in a matter of seconds he went as limp as a boned fish.

"That's it, buddy, go to sleep, we're going for a little ride," Cook said as he pushed him into the sedan and shut the door.

"You better hope nobody saw this, numbskull, or we're history!" Bauer spat out as he got into the car.

"Told ya he would put up a struggle. This was your plan, genius!" Cook shot back.

"This skinny guy wasn't supposed to be so strong," he groused as he strapped the unconscious McCormick into the seat. A bruise was forming on McCormick's jaw, and some blood was trickling from his mouth.

"Shut your whining trap, bonehead, and get us outta here! The doc and his whole goddam team are waiting for us, step on it!" Bauer barked.

7

The good doctor was getting a little impatient, for his two new sidekicks haven't arrived yet. He was about to leave his office at the Z.K. Matthews hospital, when his phone rang.

"Yeah. That's good, very good. A struggle, I hope nobody saw you, for your lives depend on it! Good, bring him in at the side entrance," Lesnar said, and put the phone down.

He hurried to his special prep room, where the next part of his plan would be carried out. After that interfering old buzzard Hardcastle put a lid on one of his most profitable drug running operations, his son had killed himself. That was enough reason to plot revenge against the old coot. _Nobody _pulls such a stunt on Alan Lesnar, ever! Especially nosy old judges who should have retired a long time ago, safely locked away inside an old age home. McCormick was being wheeled into the prep room, when Lesnar arrived. Inside the prep room, Janine Wood, a renowned make-up artist in her fifties, was waiting for her latest little 'project'.

"What have we here?" Janine asked, "Mmm … a rather pretty kid, it would be a pity to sell his parts, wouldn't it? You running out of Mexicans with usable parts?"

"You shut up about that, walls have ears," Lesnar hissed. "This has to be done. This is to look like a first class hit and run accident, plenty of broken bones, lots of blood and gore, really messy. You will make this kid look like death warmed over. I want an Oscar winning performance from you."

"Only the best for my favourite doc. Looks like the young man took a bit of a beating; his jaw is turning blue. That would add to the effect I'm going to create."

"Let's get on with it, then," Lesnar said, as Janine started to work on the unconscious McCormick.

00000

An hour later, McCormick was wheeled out of the prep room. Bauer and Cook were standing outside, waiting for further instructions. When they saw what Janine had done with McCormick, their mouths were hanging open. It was ghastly, the vast quantity of fake blood and broken bones, his face looked the worst, something out of a nightmare in Elm Street.

"Wow, this is horrific. Nobody would be able to tell that this is all fake," Cook commented.

"Janine knows her stuff. Works every time. The poor bereaved families never have a clue what really went down. This is not going to be any different. That old judge's reaction would be worth watching," Bauer smirked.

"Quit blabbering and get the kid out of here. There is no time to waste," Lesnar said.

"Call me when you arrive at the 'crime scene'. Make sure nobody sees you. Then you call the police, and I will send the ambulance. My crew is ready for the next step of the operation."

8

Half an hour later Bauer and Cook returned to the 'crime scene', in front of the hardware store. The flashy red sports car, with the pool filter sitting on the front seat, was still parked where McCormick had left it. McCormick was in the back seat of their car, still unconscious from the drug cocktail, designed to keep him out of it for at least sixteen hours. The cocktail was brewed with different types of tranquilizer and anaesthetic derivatives, in the right quantities. Lesnar had estimated McCormick's weight to be in the vicinity of 162 pounds, with a height of a little over six feet. He thought he had the height/weight ratio just right. The young man was out like a light. And, he would never wake up again in this life.

"Ya ready, Cook?" Bauer asked his accomplice, who was watching the traffic.

"Ready as I'll ever be. Hope King Rat holds up his end of the bargain," Cook retorted as he parked the car in the middle of the street. There was, for that moment, no traffic on either side, and they had to hurry. Bauer, who was in the back seat, shoved McCormick out of the car, into the street.

"Step on it!" he shouted and Cook peeled away, tires squealing.

"Goodbye, Mister Chips!" Cook added, lifting the receiver of the car phone from its cradle, and called Frank Harper at the precinct to inform him of the accident, and that an ambulance would be on its way. That was a mistake, for he left his fingerprints on the phone… Some bystanders, leaving the Homemart store, spotted McCormick lying in the middle of the street. They ran to him, lying there, lifeless on the hot asphalt. A woman screamed when she saw him, and dropped her shopping bag.

00000

The phone rang in Frank Harper's office. Hardcastle was still sitting there, paging through a file on Harper's desk when the ringing phone made him look up.

"Frank Harper," Frank answered, "hit and run, calm down mister, can't hear you … Camden street … you saw the car? Yes … yes, did you see the licence plate? Can you describe the car … ok … yes … it just sped away, leaving the victim there? Where are you calling from? Good, is the victim alive … can you describe the victim? That is very good, we're on our way. Can you come to the precinct in Rosebank for a statement? Thank you very much, sir. This city needs people like you."

"Someone was run over in Camden street. Crazy fool who did just sped off. Luckily the guy who called us, called 911, too. Said he saw a young guy with curly hair leaving the hardware section of Homemart, crossing the street, and some guy in a black Mercedes ran him over, kaboom, just like that, and sped off like a bat out of hell," Frank continued, taking his jacket.

Then he looked up at Hardcastle and saw that all the color had drained out of his face.

"Milt, what's wr-"

"Curly hair, you said, hardware store … Frank – it could be …" Milt said in a shocked voice.

"McCormick? Oh hell, no!" Frank interjected, "come on, Milt, you … I don't think … it can't be, could it?"

"I'm coming with you, Frank, just to make sure. Hell, I sent the kid to the hardware store for the pool filter, and he-" Hardcastle burst out, pulling Frank by the sleeve of his shirt, almost shoving him out the door.

"Milt, honest to God, I hope you're wrong!"

00000

"You sure that judge will be there?" Cook asked Bauer as he put the receiver back on its cradle.

"Oh, he will be. It's all part of the plan. Frank Harper and that old mule are practically joined at the hip," Bauer assured him, "the ambulance should arrive at the scene in five more minutes. Yes, the old judge will be there, count on it."

Things were about to get interesting. Very, very interesting indeed.

9

Camden street was crowded when Frank and Hardcastle arrived at the scene. The red and blue lights of the ambulance were flashing above the heads of the crowd. And there, parked near the entrance of Homemart, was the Coyote …

"Oh my God, Frank! McCormick's car!" Hardcastle rasped, his voice so full of misery, it made Frank's blood run cold.

Milt jumped out of the patrol car before Frank could utter a word.

"Milt, Milt, wait!" Frank shouted as he got out of the car, but the judge ran with all the speed he could muster to the scene of the accident.

00000

Inside the ambulance, Dr Lesnar and Masters were watching the scene unfold in front of them.

"Best seat in the house, eh doc?" Masters smirked.

"I would not miss this for all the money in the world! That old bastard is going to pay with the life of his 'son', for the life of my own," Lesnar hissed with ice in his voice.

"This show is gonna be a real Oscar winner."

"Look, there he comes," Masters pointed. "Right on schedule. What a beautiful reunion this is gonna be," Lesnar returned.

"There won't be a dry eye in the house tonight."

00000

Hardcastle reached the crowd, and muscled his way through, until he reached McCormick. Two paramedics were there with him. Looking grave and solemn, they stood there, with bloody hands. At the sight of his friend, lying there motionless, his knees became unhinged. He uttered a strangled cry and dropped down onto his knees, and reached out a trembling hand to touch McCormick's bloody face. His senses were reeling, everything became overly bright, like a hallucination from hell. The kid was lying, like a broken doll, in a pool of his own blood. His curly hair was matted with thick blood, his forehead was cracked open, white shards of bone were sticking out of the gaping wound. Blood had streamed out of the hole in a dark red curtain over his bruised face. Bright red, foamy blood ran from his mouth, his teeth stained red. His shirt was nearly torn from his body, the skin raw and torn open on the right side of his ribcage. The ribs were so badly shattered, they poked from the gaping hole in his torso. There was so much blood that it even soaked his torn jeans. The young man's hands were covered in contusions that bled profusely. More blood was seeping from McCormick's nose and ears. His breathing, suppressed by the drugs, was not noticeable. It had slowed down considerably. He appeared to be dead. That was part of Lesnar's plan to fool Hardcastle, and so far, it was working.

"McCormick, oh God, no!" Hardcastle cried hoarsely, with so much pain in his voice, that it brought tears to the eyes of many who stood there, watching the tragedy unfold.

Hardcastle gently touched McCormick's face and took it in his hands. Tears were spilling from his eyes, dripping onto the bloody face in his hands. He half lifted McCormick in his arms and sat flat onto the tarmac, with the curly head in his lap.

"No … not you, not again," he choked out, stroking the bloodied curls with a shaking hand.

Incredibly, the kid was still warm. That felt like an icy dagger boring into his heart. Frank, having heard that awful cry coming from Milt, knew that it was too late, it was over. Mark McCormick was dead. Trembling, he knelt down next to Milt. He gently touched the judge's shoulder, feeling the tremors coursing through his body. Tears stood in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Oh God, Milt, I'm so sorry, so sorry, my friend," he said in a choked voice, staring at McCormick's broken body.

There was so much blood, so much innocent blood drying on the tarmac, his head was reeling from the sight. This was one of the worst accidents he had ever witnessed in all his years on the force. And now, it had to be this kid, this dear, crazy, sweet kid that came to mean so much to Milt and himself. He looked up at the paramedics, and the guy he thought to be a doctor, standing there with their bloody hands and grave faces. They had taken a gurney out of the ambulance.

"I'm so sorry, sir. When we arrived here, he was already gone. There's nothing more we could do," the one who posed as the doctor, said to Frank. He was in shock himself, and that prevented him from noticing some things that were off-kilter, indicating that this tragedy could be a set-up.

Hardcastle looked up at them, with such misery in his eyes that Frank had to look away. He was trying so hard to stop from bursting out in tears, it felt like torture.

"I'm so sorry about your son, mister. He … I wish there was something we could do. His head injury is too severe, his neck and back are broken, and his lungs are filled with blood from the rib fractures. He had drowned in his own blood," the 'doctor' said, solemnly shaking his head.

"Good God, so much damage, poor kid, he's … broken. Too late. Too damn l-late, I should never have … I never m-meant-" Milt stammered, horrified, his body wracked with dry sobs.

Frank dabbed at his eyes, watching the agony on his friend's face. Milt was holding onto McCormick's broken body, never to let go again. It was so good to see his friend opening up, after all the years of miserable loneliness after he had lost his family, to see him care for somebody again. Milt loved this kid, and now, his best friend was dead. Life had pulled a cruel, wicked prank on Milt yet again. On him too, for McCormick was his friend, a very dear friend, almost family. Poor McCormick, he never had a chance, he thought as he listened to Milt, dragging ragged sobbing breaths from the hot, dry air. The young man's slender body was shattered, like a broken glass ornament that fell from a dressing table onto a cold stone floor.

10

From inside the ambulance, Lesnar and Masters sat and watched this tragic scene in their cruelly devised play.

"Don't you love this? It is even better than the big screen. Yes, you old slime ball, how do you like it? To have your heart roasting on a spit?" Lesnar smirked in a cruel voice. His black eyes glistened, and he was grinning widely. He looked like a shark smelling fresh blood.

"Steven Spielberg, eat your heart out. You know your stuff, doc. The kid looks pretty dead to me, and the old guy, look at him. Who would have thought he'd cry over some ex-con?" Masters added.

"Yes, he does look a tad miserable doesn't he? Good. Bloody excellent. I hope he will be suffering for the rest of his life. I hope he never forgets this day, this seventeenth day of October, 1985. May he take it to his grave!" Lesnar growled.

"Geez, doc, you are in a good mood, aren't you? What's the next scene in the 'death to McCormick' play, anyway?" Masters asked.

"We'll take McCormick to Z.K., and clean him up. I want you to run some tests on his blood, major organs - heart, liver, kidneys and lungs. Want to know how healthy those organs are before we take them out of him and sell them to Brinks. If they are any good, we'll get a pretty package for them."

"Does the package include those two goons, Bauer and Cook, this time?"

"What do you think? They know too much. If word gets out about our Mexican projects, we could be in a tight spot. It is time for them to leave the stage," Lesnar hinted with something so dark in his dry voice it made Masters cringe.

"You're the boss. McCormick looks very healthy, anyway. If we're lucky, we could use everything. How many high paying clients does Brinks have who could benefit from this?" Masters asked.

"Thirteen, to be exact, and some of them will have the same blood type as McCormick. They are willing to pay at least four million each if they get what they need. I understand they are on their last legs, as we speak. What billionaires would not do to stay on this good earth with so much to enjoy. Just think, when they punch the final timeclock, can they take their riches with them when they burn in hell?"

00000

Milt was still sitting on the tarmac with McCormick's head in his lap, stroking the bloodied curls. It was a pitiful sight. Frank had never seen him looking so totally lost, hurt and heartbroken. His clothes and hands, and even his face were streaked with blood. The paramedics and the 'doctor' knelt down beside him and Frank.

"Sir, I'm sorry sir, but we have to take him now," one of them said.

Hardcastle looked up at them, his eyes red and wet. He just stared at them, and then bowed his head, still stroking McCormick's hair. He was not going to leave his young friend.

"Sir, we are sorry, but it is time - we have to take your son," the other paramedic said.

"Milt-," Frank tried, but the judge would not move away from McCormick.

"No. Don't take him just yet, just let me … give me …," Milt rasped, his breathing still ragged.

"Sir, please, we must go now," the first paramedic coaxed. Finally Hardcastle looked up at them.

"Where … where are you taking him?" he stammered.

"To the Z.K. Matthews hospital mortuary, sir," the 'doctor' said.

"No, no! You won't! Now go away! Leave us in peace," Hardcastle growled at them, tight lipped.

"Milt, you have to let go. This is not …" Frank tried again, but Milt would not budge.

"Sir, please," the phoney doctor tried again, touching Milt's arm. Hardcastle angrily swatted his hand away.

"Go away, all of you! Leave me alone, you bastards, get away from me!" he shouted hoarsely. He was clearly entering a state of shock. He was trembling and sweating profusely. His stormy, expressive blue eyes were wide and glistening.

"Come on, Milt, let go," Frank pleaded, touching Milt's arm, trying to pry his fingers from the bloody tangles of McCormick's hair.

"No, get the hell away from me!" Milt spat out and shoved Frank roughly backwards. Frank looked pleadingly at the paramedics. The 'doctor' brought out a tranquilizer shot, and took the judge's arm.

"No, don't do this to me, no, back off, you morons, all of ya, get away from him!" Hardcastle screamed in a tortured voice, struggling with the bogus doc.

"Hold still, we just wanna help you," Frank pleaded again, holding his friend's arms still, while the guy gave him the shot, risking a black eye and a couple of missing teeth.

"Easy now, Milt, it's gonna be all right, easy there," Frank soothed, holding his friend.

"No, no, what are you … let me alone … the kid-" Milt mumbled as the shot was taking effect in his bloodstream. The paramedics took him by the arms and lifted him onto his feet, dragging him away from McCormick's body.

"McCormick!" he cried with his hands stretched out in front of him. Had he stayed a little longer, he might have felt the flutter of McCormick's pulse inside the little hollow below his throat, as well as the slow, shallow breathing.

11

Frank helped the paramedics to get Hardcastle into his car, fastening him with the safety belt. He then returned with them to the accident scene. After McCormick was declared dead by the man posing as the doctor, the paramedics gently moved McCormick's body onto the gurney. They opened the body bag to place him inside his shroud of death. Frank stared at the body of the young man that used to be so full of life, so energetic and optimistic, hell, nothing could bring the kid down, he bounced right back after all the accidents and misfortunes he had suffered in his short life. Life was just not fair. Why did the curtain have to go down for this special kid, just when his and Milt's lives were turning out for the better? McCormick was one in a million, fiercely loyal, smarter than a whip, with the heart of a lion. He would be sorely missed. He had never told anyone yet, but he had gained a good deal of respect for McCormick; for his bravery, his intelligent and uncanny way of solving cases when nobody, not even Milt could find the answers. Frank shook his head sadly, and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. He caught sight of McCormick's medallion, which was still on its chain around his neck. Even he was fooled by the drugs, and did not notice the shallow breathing. Milt would want that, he thought, and gently removed it from inside McCormick's torn shirt, drawing it over the curly head. He closed his fist around the bloody medallion, then put it inside his shirt pocket. He looked at Mark's still face, put a hand out and gently stroked his bloody cheek.

"Goodbye, kid. Hell, we're gonna miss ya, Milt and I. No father should bury his son, twice. Why did you have to leave us? What's going to become of Milt now?" Frank asked the man that he thought to be dead. He turned around, not wanting to see the paramedics put McCormick in the body bag. But he looked anyway. When they closed the body bag over the kid's curls, it felt like a dagger being twisted around inside his guts. He turned his back on the ambulance and started to leave the scene. Some other members of his squad had arrived on the scene. Officer Dave Dawson approached him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry sir, about McCormick. He was a good man. We're all gonna miss him," he tried to console the lieutenant.

"Yeah, this is really the worst day ever. Poor Milt. He is not taking it well at all," Frank muttered, "listen, I want you guys to put on an APB on a black Mercedes, probably very badly dented, immediately. I want to get the guy who did this and personally cut his head off at the waist!" Frank growled, a deep anger was smouldering inside him now.

"I'm taking Milt to my house, and I'm going to be staying with him for a while. Call Officer Dahn and tell her to man my office for at least the next 24 hours, and call me if you find something, got it?" Frank ordered, and turned around to leave.

"You can count on us, Lieutenant. We won't rest until we bring the maniac who killed McCormick to justice, sir," Dawson said to him, leaving to make a call on his radio.

Frank went to his car, and his heart bled for Milt, who was sitting slumped in his seat, still out of it. He shook his head and a shuddery sigh escaped his lips. What is going to become of Milt? He is going to need all the support he could get in his darkest hours. Poor Claudia, she also does not know of McCormick's death yet. She was fond of him, too. This is hard, damn hard. Tears blinded him, and he could hardly see the road ahead of him.

00000

Claudia was on her way to her car, for she needed to get some vegetables at the store, when Frank's car skidded to a halt in front of the house. He got out, and when she looked at his face, she knew that something very bad had happened. His eyes were red and his face had a pasty, swollen look.

"Frank?" she called as she went to him, "what's the matter?" Then she saw Milt still in the car, with blood on his face and clothes, slumped in his seat.

"Frank – what happened?" she asked, getting really scared. Frank finally looked at her. His shoulders slumped as he sighed like a tired old man.

"Claudia, something terrible has happened. It's McCormick. He was run over and he … died just over an hour ago." he sighed again.

"What? No, Frank, not McCormick! Oh God, Frank, I can't believe it!" Claudia called out in a horrified voice, she was expecting bad news, but this was worse than she could have imagined.

"Oh, Frank!" she cried out and hugged him tightly, "I'm so sorry. Poor, poor Milt …" Tears streamed from her eyes as she held her husband. Together they stood there, hugging each other tightly, when a groan was heard from inside the car.

"He's coming to, help me get him out of the car and into the house. Will you please call Charlie Friedman for me, at LA General after we get him inside?" Frank asked her, his eyes still red and teary.

"Oh, Frank, that poor kid, what did he ever do to deserve that?"

"The nut who did this is going to pay, Claudia, I swear," Frank growled, feeling red hot anger welling up inside him again.

12

The ambulance sped away to Z.K. Matthews. Bauer and Cook followed them, after watching the cruel play unfold from a safe distance. After the arrival of the ambulance, McCormick was wheeled in at the side entrance, where he would not attract attention. He was wheeled to the prep room again. Janine Wood was waiting there for her "patient" to arrive before she could undo her brilliant so-called Oscar winning special effects on McCormick.

"Hello, Alan, how did the judge like this stunning piece of artwork?" She asked.

"It was to die for, my dear," Lesnar returned dryly, "our judge - may he rot in hell, the old fool - fell for it, hook, line and sinker."

"Well, let's clean this young stud up," Janine added, fetching a bowl of warm water, soaps and scrubbers. "Pity, to undo so much hard work. He would have made a great piece at the local art gallery, 'roadkill' I would call it."

"Just get on with it, I want the tests done on him immediately; we have no time to lose," Lesnar grumbled and left the room to make some very important calls.

"Well, cutie-pie, pity the old shark is gonna kill you in the end. You never should have hooked up with that crazy old fool judge," Janine said to the unconscious McCormick, as she stripped the torn clothes from his body. Quickly and efficiently she started washing the fake blood, bones and gore from him.

"Yep, real pretty kid. I just love your chiselled, masculine face. What a waste, a real crying shame that you have to die to save the lives of some rich old billionaire bastards," Janine continued as she cleaned the young man up.

After the cleaning-up job was done, Masters was called to take their patient to the X-ray facilities, where his internal organs were photographed. After the X-rays were taken, McCormick was wheeled to the sonar room for further tests. He was then wheeled to a small private room next to the lab, where blood samples were taken and tested. Lesnar might have been a genius in his field, but he misjudged himself with two things when he prepared the special tranquilizer for McCormick. He got the weight/height ratio wrong - McCormick was about ten pounds heavier than he looked. He also did not take McCormick's robust constitution into account. He was much stronger and healthier than the average person his size and age. He was so strong, that the tranquilizer started to wear off after only three hours, instead of the planned sixteen. His metabolism was quick, his body temperature slightly higher than what is considered normal. This, together with his good health, was working the powerful drugs out of his system. He was starting to drift to wakefulness as the tests were performed on him. His body was still unable to move, but his mind was slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. After another hour, most of the tests were performed, and Masters left the room, going back into the small lab to complete the blood tests and prepare the results for Lesnar.

00000

McCormick was slowly drifting out of the fog. For a while he was almost comatose from the drugs, which had paralyzed him, playing havoc with his nervous system, and driving him down very deep for the first hour or so. The drugs were supposed to keep him under during the final operation, where his major organs would be removed by Lesnar. The drug cocktail was also a dangerous one, and would kill a person when injected twice on the same day. It could cause shutdown of the nervous system, and brain, and cause damage to the more sensitive internal organs, such as the liver. The drugs also could have nasty after effects on patients, lasting for days, if they ever woke up from them. Lesnar had sixteen hours to perform the trick on Hardcastle, for lab tests, and to successfully remove all the major organs. Unfortunately for Lesnar, McCormick's body was shaking the drug cocktail off, and the thick, gray and black mists were lifting from his eyes. For four hours he was trapped inside a nightmare in hell. A thick soup of swirling gray-black mists and explosions of purple, green and white flashes went off inside his brain, causing him extreme sensory discomfort. His muscles were completely paralyzed, but he could feel the pain of the rough handling he received. He could not utter a sound or open his eyelids. His senses were distorted but heightened in a way, he could hear, smell and feel his surroundings. Everything was a crazy hallucinatory explosion in his brain. He could feel hands on his body, some not gentle at all. He heard screams, shouts and wails in his head, rushing at him like red-hot, poisoned arrows through the black fog, piercing his brain. Worst of all, he thought he heard Hardcastle's voice, hearing him shout and cry miserably, though he could not make out the words. He could even feel somebody stroking his hair. He felt hands prodding and poking him, and needles in his arms. He wanted to scream and cry himself, but his voice was locked inside his paralyzed throat.

13

Frank and Claudia helped Milt from the car, and half dragged him into the house. He was taken to the guest room, and helped onto the bed. Frank gave him a clean shirt to wear. Claudia took his shoes off, and covered him with a quilt. He groaned, and his eyelids fluttered open. He was still very groggy, and everything was a little out of focus. Frank leaned over him, looking worried.

"Milt, how are you feeling?" he asked.

"Wha … Frank? Where … where am I?" Milt said, his voice thick and a little slurry.

"You're at my house, in the guest room. I had Claudia call Charlie Friedman, he'll be here soon."

"Why? What am I doing here, what happened, Frank?" Milt was still a little out of it, but when he saw the look in Frank's face, the realisation of what had happened earlier that day, hit him with the force of a runaway freight train.

"McCormick!" he suddenly remembered, sitting upright in bed, his eyes filled with pain.

"Easy there, Milt, just-" Frank tried to push him back against the pillows, but Milt grabbed him by the collar.

"The kid is dead, Frank! Dead, and all of it is my fault, Frank, I sent him to the store! If only I didn't … I sent him to his grave! Do you hear me?" He rasped, his fist around Frank's collar.

"No, Milt, it was an accident. You could not prevent it!" Frank tried to calm Milt down, trying to pry his friend's fingers from his collar. Something like understanding dawned in Milt's eyes, like a light that was switched on.

"No, it was no accident, it was murder! Somebody was out to get me, and now my best friend is lying in a morgue!" Hardcastle said with so much bitterness in his voice it made Frank cringe.

"You can't be sure of that, Milt, it was a hit and run accident, and I'm just as angry about it as you are," Frank interjected.

"You're wrong! McCormick was murdered, and I am gonna find out who did this, and I will rip him apart with my bare hands!" Milt growled, and a murderous light shone from the stormy blue depths of his eyes. He pushed Frank away from him, and tried to get out of the bed.

"Milt, for heaven's sake, lie down. Charlie is on his way. You cannot go anywhere in the state you're in!" Frank tried to reason with Milt, and pushed him back against the pillows again.

"You don't get it, do you? This is not just another case here, it is McCormick we're talking about, and I am not going to sit around here while his killer is running loose on the streets, Frank! You are not gonna stop me." Milt was in a dangerous mood, and clearly still in a state of shock.

Just then, the doorbell rang, and Charlie Friedman appeared in the doorway.

"Oh thank goodness you're here, Charlie, please talk some sense into Milt," Frank said, relieved.

"Milt," Charlie said as he went to him, "I'm so sorry to hear about McCormick. Claudia told me over the phone. I can not begin to imagine how you must feel right now." Charlie said, putting a hand on Milt's shoulder.

"McCormick was murdered! I'm gonna catch his killer and blow his brains out, I'm gonna rip his guts out and make him eat them!" Milt gusted, trying to get out of bed.

"Frank, call the ambulance. Milt, you are going to the hospital. You are in no condition to even be on your feet right now," Charlie returned, winking at Frank.

"I'm on it," Frank said as he hurried out of the room.

"No! No hospitals, Charlie, don't you dare, there's nothing wrong with me! I'm not going to any hospital," Milt groused, "unless you want me to crack your head, first?"

"Well, what is it gonna be then, Milt?" Charlie demanded.

"All right, I'll stay here. But you're not gonna pump me full of drugs, you hear? I need a clear head, I need to think. There's a killer on the loose with McCormick's innocent blood on his hands, and I need to-"

"I understand, my friend. But for your own good, you must rest a little, first. You are still in shock, and your body needs rest to absorb it. You are going to need all the strength you can get to work through this, and bring that killer to justice," Charlie explained, preparing to inject Milt with a mild sedative.

"How, Charlie, how on earth am I going to get through this?" Milt said, suddenly sounding very old and worn out as he laid back against the pillows in defeat.

14

McCormick was re-entering the world of wakefulness, and the mists were lifting from his eyes. He found himself lying in a bed, a hospital bed, and as things around him came into focus, he saw that he was alone in a smallish hospital room. His head was pounding fiercely from the drug cocktail, and he felt nausea rising in his stomach. He was utterly confused – how did he get here, and why was he in the hospital, again? He could not remember anything about an accident or an illness at all. His big blue eyes took in the detail of the stark hospital room around him, and nothing made sense to him.

"What the hell … what am I doing here?" he asked himself, his voice sounded slurry and his throat felt thick. His heart began to race as panic started to set in, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. He looked down at himself, lifted his arms from under the covers – why did they feel so heavy? – and felt his own body, searching for injuries of some sort. He moved his legs under the covers. Nothing was broken, he just had a hell of a headache, his limbs felt like lead, and his ribs ached. He noticed that he was dressed in a hospital smock. He was about to make an attempt at getting out of the bed when he heard voices in the corridor, approaching the room. Maybe he should ask the owners of those voices what in the blue hell had happened to him. Before he could get out of bed, he heard Hardcastle's name. He could hear each word clearly.

"… the old judge got the surprise of his life, I just loved to see the look on his face when he saw McCormick looking like roadkill. Man, did the old guy really fall for the trick!"

"Oh, yes did he ever. Hardcastle thinks the guy is lying in the morgue right now. The look on his face was priceless, I got a huge kick out of that, I assure you. Now that is what I call justice!"

At the sound of those words McCormick's blood turned cold. What the hell? What are they talking about? It felt like he was falling into a bottomless pit lined with ice splinters. Before he could utter a sound, the owners of those voices entered the room. By some deep instinct, coming from living in fear of beatings from his uncle as a kid, he closed his eyes and lay motionless in the bed.

"Well, are the test results ready, Masters?" Lesnar asked as they entered the room.

"Yes, I have it all here." Masters went into the lab and gathered all the documents, putting them into a file.

"You are gonna be very happy about it. The kid's heart is as solid as a rock. Strongest heart I've ever seen. In fact, even after he dies of old age, it will keep on pumping!" Masters joked, but was met with a devastating look from Lesnar.

"Sorry. His liver is spotless, his lungs clear. His kidneys are in perfect working condition as well. He is as healthy as a race horse. His bones are strong, and his blood count is as good as can be. We could use almost everything this guy has to give and that seldom happens; very healthy people like him just don't exist anymore. Today's young people just pump themselves full of drugs and alcohol, or stuff their fat faces with all kinds of junk. You'll be getting a bundle for this one, I tell you. Here are the printouts of the results," Masters continued, "hell, this kid is tough. Not even bullets could stop him. Has a scar from a bullet wound on his shoulder. Looks like he even survived a cataclysmic car crash or some other major disastrous mishap that involved broken glass, he has some old scars on his face, neck, chest and arms. Apart from that, there is nothing wrong with him."

"Well, this is my lucky day, isn't it? First I get my revenge on old Hardcase, and now Brinks is going to pay me – us – a fortune. The price has just doubled. Those old geezers are going to get brand new parts that are in excellent condition. It can't get any better than that," Lesnar said, sounding very pleased with himself.

"We must take him to the operating room, and make haste." Masters said.

"We still have about twelve hours, give or take. We'll scrub down now, prepare our patient for the operation," Lesnar explained.

"The operation itself would probably take six hours in this case, as we take everything this time. Boy, four million a piece, and now the price has doubled? Our road is paved with gold," Masters smiled, sounding like a shark himself.

"What about our two stooges, Bauer and his little pal?"

"They will get paid, of course, in bullets," Lesnar said icily, and turned to leave the room.

"Sorry, son," Masters said to McCormick, who was still lying in the bed with his eyes shut, "we've got some money to make." Not expecting McCormick to be anything but comatose, Masters did not bother to check his vitals. He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

McCormick was paralysed with shock, after hearing what was planned for him. He was not firing on all cylinders yet, but he understood some of what was said. He was wondering if he were not having some sort of delirious nightmare. If these people were not organ traffickers, his name should be changed to Ronald MacDonald! And Hardcastle? Where does he fit into this nightmare?

"Gotta … gotta get out of here …" he murmured to himself, "murder incorporated is gonna kill me, and they did something to Hardcastle. Hardcastle! I gotta get to him."

He moved the covers away from him, and tried to get out of bed. His legs felt like jelly, and when he tried to stand, his knees buckled. He was trembling like a leaf, and sweat was streaming down his face. His heart was pounding so hard and fast the blood was roaring in his head. Black dots danced around before his eyes.

"What the heck … what is wrong with me? I have to … have to get … come on!" he grunted in effort as he was trying not to spill himself onto the floor, clinging to the side of the bed.

After what felt like a lifetime, the tremors eased out of his legs, and he took a few steps. His head was swimming, the black dots and gray mists still came and went before his eyes. His breathing was ragged. Finally he reached the door, and opened it. He peered around, the corridor was deserted for the time being. He could hear the hustling and bustling of nurses in another corridor close by. His brain was still muddled, and he had no idea how he was going to get past murder incorporated. He did not even know which hospital he was in.

15

"Any progress? Damn! Don't tell me nobody has seen a black Mercedes, a _smashed_black Mercedes anywhere? Were there no other witnesses at all? What about the people at the store, did they … that is bullshit … and at the scene of the accident? What? No glass shards? Nothing but some skid marks on the tarmac … that's strange. Do you think so? That sounds totally far fetched. Well, keep looking, then!" Frank was getting more agitated by the second, as he was listening to the feedback from his team over the phone.

He slammed the receiver down, and rubbed his face with both hands. First McCormick was killed in a hit and run, mauled and broken, and now the APB on the killer had turned up zilch. What was even stranger, no broken glass on the surface of the road indicated that there even was a hit and run accident. Nobody even saw anything out of the ordinary except the guy who made the call. Could it be that Milt was right, that McCormick was murdered? Just then Hardcastle was entering the den, after he heard Frank yell at someone over the phone. He looked like he had aged thirty years, looking haggard and pale. He looked terrible. The shot Charlie gave him did not seem to help any.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Frank asked, still angry.

"Who was that? Any news?" Milt asked, wearily rubbing his eyes.

"That was Dawson at the station. They haven't found the black car yet, and there were no other witnesses either," Frank continued, and repeated the information he had just received to Hardcastle.

"What did I tell you? McCormick was murdered! This stinks to high heaven, Frank! Somebody wanted to teach me a lesson by killing him," Hardcastle spat out.

"Who would do something like that? Where do we start looking, Milt? You've made many enemies on the bench."

"I don't know. Somebody with a grudge against me, inside or out, or … hey, I just remembered something. What about that note I brought to the station?"

"What about it?" Frank asked, and then realisation dawned in his eyes. "Holy crap, Milt, you're right. That note about the death of your son, and a lesson that you had to be taught."

"But McCormick was not my son? So why …?"

"You and McCormick were pretty close, and the killer did accuse you of causing the death of his or her son, and found out how much McCormick really meant to you. Somebody knew you cared for that boy," Frank said, his voice wavering, as he remembered McCormick lying on the asphalt, in his own blood.

"How could this be happening?" Hardcastle groaned, and sagged into the sofa, and what was locked up inside his heart gushed out, the floodgates were torn open.

"I didn't even want to be friends with McCormick at the beginning, and I even told him once, that he was no replacement for my own son. And now, I swore that I would never tell anyone, not even you, that I came to love that crazy, goofy kid as if he were my own. I do not know how it happened. But one day, a few months back, I looked at him, as he was making some of his daffy, crackpot remarks over an old John Wayne movie we were watching. At that moment I realised that I stopped caring for him as just a friend, and that I considered him family, my family. He did not replace my son, but earned himself his own special place in my heart. For the first time in many years, I felt that I cared for somebody again."

"I know. I saw it in your eyes. And you know what? That kid loved you, too, more than you would ever have known. It was written all over his face, that fondness, for eyes to see that could, for you were becoming the father that he never really had," Frank agreed, taking a seat opposite Milt, who sat there looking at him, his eyes moist.

"Sometimes I saw something in his eyes, too, and I hoped … he was just as stubborn as I am, and he never told me how he really felt. He probably never would have, after that thoughtless remark I made about him not being a substitute. How I regret that! I could never tell the kid that he was appreciated and wanted. And now, I'll never get that chance. He had his faults, you know, he drove me nuts most of the time, but he was the best friend a person could ever wish for. He was loyal as they come. I trusted him with my life, and now … suddenly I have nothing left t-to live for," Milt stammered, burying his face in his hands.

"Don't say that," Frank tried to reason with Milt.

"It's true, you know. Without McCormick, I have nobody to watch my back that I could trust like that again; there will be no more cases, I have to retire now. I lost my family, Frank, and McCormick gave my life meaning again, the empty hours, the loneliness and the pain … he made all that bearable. There was hardly a dull moment with him around, that klutzy kid, he could never do anything quietly, and always gave me a run for my money, even at the basketball court. I cannot imagine a life without him now," Milt murmured, shaking his head, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"And do you know the worst? I sent Mark to his grave. He would not be lying in a morgue right now, if I hadn't carried on about his chores. He had to pay for a stupid pool filter with his blood, Frank. And you know what the last thing is that I said to Mark? I told him that he was a pain in the butt, and I practically drove him out of the house after I jumped down his throat like that. What have I done?" Milt asked, tears coursing down his cheeks.

"Milt, you cannot blame yourself for the accident, it was totally unexpected, and-"

"No, Frank, I am to blame. Somebody was out to get me, and McCormick had to pay for my mistakes with his life!"

16

McCormick sat on the hospital bed, trying to get his muddled brain to devise a plan of action. If only he did not feel like he were floating in a haze.

"I've been drugged, I swear. I've gotta get outta here, but I don't know how," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. He could feel a dinosaur of a headache coming on. He walked to the window, and opened it. He looked down, and saw that he was on the third floor of the building. He still had no idea where he was. The parking lot was directly below the window. It was too high to jump; a person would fall to his death.

McCormick shook his head, and looked around him. He had to create some sort of diversion if he were to escape unseen. He noticed a steel cabinet in the corner of the small room. He went to it and opened the door. On the shelves were some folded sheets, with a broom and a floor mop in the other corner.

"Aw, damn. Just my luck, a broom and a couple of sh-" and then an idea hit him, an idea so good it made him smile.

"Sheets! Of course!" he said to himself, seeing a little light inside the dark tunnel he was in. "Let's hope these guys are dumb enough to fall for it."

McCormick moved the bed against the wall, directly under the window. He took all the sheets from the cabinet, and tied their ends together to form one long rope. It was a tedious business; his hands were shaking badly. He then tied one end of his 'rope' to one leg of the bed. He took the bundle of sheets and tossed it out of the window, watching it unravel. It was a little short, but if he were to climb down it, he would have to drop about twelve feet to the ground. Then McCormick climbed into the steel cabinet and closed the door from the inside, waiting for the fun to begin. He did not have to wait long. Lesnar and Masters entered his hospital room not ten minutes after he curled himself up inside the steel cabinet. _If I sneeze or fart, I'm deader than a bug on a windshield! _he thought_. _

"The nurses' station - what the hell?" Lesnar shouted, totally dumbstruck, when he discovered the bed against the window, with sheets tied to one leg, a bed without McCormick in it.

"No! No way! This is nuts, what the hell happened here?" Masters asked, shocked.

"What do you think, moron? McCormick escaped!" Lesnar screamed at Masters, his face white, his eyes shooting black daggers.

"How in the name of Sam Hill's balls could he have woken up from the drug cocktail?"

"But that's impossible, doc! He could never have-"

"It was you, wasn't it? You have something to do with this! You gave him something to wake him up. You double crossed me, you snake!" Lesnar screamed, lunging for Masters, ready to choke the life out of him.

"No! I have nothing to do with this, I swear! You gotta believe me, doc, why would I double cross you? You are the only one in this hospital who could brew drug cocktails like the one you gave McCormick, maybe you did something wrong this time!" Masters was blabbering, backing away from Lesnar, his eyes huge with fear.

"Never! Nobody ever wakes up from my drugs, you damn fool, it was-"

"Wait a minute, doc, think hard, here; McCormick could not have gotten out of here by himself. Even if he did wake up, he would be in no state to even walk at all. You created the drugs, and you know how lousy it would make anyone feel who has the misfortune to ever wake up from it. You tested it yourself, remember?" Masters was trying to buy himself some time.

"What exactly are you saying, Masters?" Lesnar growled, grabbing Masters, pinning him against the wall.

"It wasn't me, doc. You know what I think? I think those two slime balls, Bauer and Cook, yeah, they did this. They made it look as if McCormick escaped. You knew Bauer sold kids and young guys to that sheik in the Middle East from time to time, put two and two together, man!" Masters was shaking like a leaf, looking ready to faint.

A light dawned in Lesnar's black shark-like eyes. He let go of Masters, who sagged onto the floor.

"You think? Why should I believe you, a sewer rat like you would say anything to get out of a tight spot."

"It's the only logical explanation. You know, even if I tried to double cross you, would I get away with it? You've known me and worked with me for twenty-four years. I'm telling you, it was Bauer. Him and that flea bag, Cook. You made a big mistake in trusting those buffoons," Masters said wearily, still sitting with his back against the wall.

"To hell with this, and to hell with you, too! Suppose you are right about this, Bauer has foolishly suggested that McCormick be sold to the sheik, only this morning. I did not take it seriously enough. That piece of filth, how dare he! Doesn't he know who he is dealing with? The arrogance, the gall! Get up from there, we've got to get those two pieces of dead meat, and McCormick, before he does wake up," Lesnar spat out, huffing like a raging bull.

"Where shall we start looking? They could be anywhere by now!" Masters whined as he got up from the floor.

"You are dumber than you look; you know that I have contacts everywhere. Bauer and friend Cook would not be able to fart without me knowing. They are two very dead double crossing bastards."

Lesnar charged out of the room, fuming, with Masters on his heels, looking like an animal caught in a trap. Luckily neither of them had noticed that the steel cabinet door was open at just a tiny crack, and that their 'quarry' had seen them. As soon as their hurrying footsteps died away, McCormick unfolded himself, and crawled from the steel cabinet. He was sweating profusely, his heart hammering away inside his chest.

"Holy cow! Of all the crazy crap I've ever seen, this wins the freaking Nobel peace prize!" he muttered, steadying himself against the steel cabinet. He shuddered at the thought if they ever happened to notice that he never left the room.

"Man, those creeps would have cut me in pieces from the feet up, not even leaving my butt for the flies to sit on!" McCormick shakily passed his hands through his sweaty curls, and wondered where he would find a telephone without anyone noticing him. He made for the door, determined to call the judge.

17

Claudia was busy pouring Milt a cup of steaming coffee. Never in her life had she seen Milt in such a state. His white hair stood up in spikes and clumps, his face ashen. His eyes glittered feverishly from their sockets, looking so haunted it scared her. He looked almost ancient. This man has just known bad luck for many years, wife and son dead, and now this. She feared for him. This was enough to make even tough old Hardcase Hardcastle crack, and come apart at the seams.

"Thank you," Hardcastle said, taking the cup with a shaking hand, nearly spilling everything on the floor.

"Careful!" Claudia said, handing him a napkin.

"I wanna go home, Frank," Milt said to Frank, who took a sip of his own coffee.

"No way, Milt. You heard what Charlie said. You stay put, use the spare room. You are in no condition to drive anywhere, and I am not gonna leave you alone at your place," Frank objected.

"It's something I have to do. I won't do anything stupid if that's what you're thinking," Milt said wearily.

"I won't have it. Stay here. You had a terrible shock, you need people around you. What are you going to do there all by yourself, anyway?"

"Frank, I don't want to argue with you. I need to go home, to work things out for myself."

"There you go again, shutting everyone out, trying to cope with everything on your own. You can't Milt, you're not strong enough, not this time!"

"I'm not shutting you out. I just want to go there and clear my head a little, you know, to think."

"Why? Sounds like a bad idea. You're in a blue funk already. Let us help you through this, man."

"I just wanna go home, that's all. Can't you understand that? Just take me home, Frank. That's all I want right now," Milt persisted, sounding very old and tired.

"Of all the stubborn jackasses I've ever known you are certainly the worst kind!" Frank growled.

"Could you take me there, please? At least that way I won't have to drive, with all these drugs in my system. My truck is still at the station, anyway. I'm asking this as a friend," Hardcastle almost pleaded.

"Whatever. If you're sure about this. I still think you're nuts to want to go there, after everything that's happened. I really don't want to leave you there alone, but you insist. Geez, Milt what am I gonna do with you?" Frank scolded, clearly chagrined at his friend's stubbornness.

"What you're gonna do is take me home and leave me to clear my head. I promise that if I need anything, I'll call you immediately, ok?"

With a sigh Frank threw his arms up in the air, shaking his head. Then he took the car keys from his pocket. Milt stood up to follow him.

"Where are you two going?" Claudia asked, emerging from the kitchen.

"I'm taking him home," Frank groused, rolling his eyes in Milt's direction, as he made for the front door.

"He can't leave now! He's sick, Frank. He's going to-"

"Try crazy, not sick. I could leave him there for the rest of the afternoon and pick him up again tonight," Frank said as he followed Milt outside.

The sky was laden and overcast, with a promise of heavy rain in the air. It was unusually warm during the last day or two, for that time of the year. The gloomy sky did nothing to improve the dark mood Milt was in.

18

McCormick stood there inside the small room, running a shaky hand through his sweaty, unruly curls.

"I gotta call Hardcase, have to find a telephone without anyone seeing me. Hardcastle thinks I'm dead, he's probably in a state of shock already. Hell, these people are crazier than killer bees on dope," McCormick said to himself. "I oughtta burn this place right down, or blow it sky high. Pity I don't know how to use all those thingamabobs inside that lab. I could have built myself a fantastic bomb, like that guy what's his face on TV. Damn, why didn't I pay more attention in science class?" He was shivering in the thin hospital smock, his backside was bare underneath, and there was a draft through the open window.

He opened the door, scanning the corridor, and made for the emergency exit. He was still feeling shaky, dizzy and nauseous, and nearly spilled himself down the stairs. His legs did not want to obey his brain.

"Whoa! That was close. What the heck is wrong with my stupid legs?" he muttered, already out of breath. Gray mists and black dots still swirled before his eyes. As he reached the bottom floor, panting, he made for the emergency door.

"Man, I should have looked for something to wear. Can't run around half naked in a smock! No, too late for that. Gotta get my butt outta here," he said, pushed the door open, and stepped outside. The air was laden with thunderclouds, and a strong wind was blowing.

"Hafta find a car, and fast, can't call Hardcase from here. Well, here goes, hope nobody sees me," McCormick said, keeping close to the wall, looking for a car that he could 'borrow'.

As he was looking around the corner of the hospital wing, he saw the reserved parking lot. A gray sedan just pulled in, and two men got out. They looked vaguely familiar. He could not exactly remember who they were, right away. His head felt still too thick and muddled to do much remembering. Just then Doctor Lesnar and his sidekick appeared, heading for the men who got out of their car.

"Oh, crap!" McCormick hissed and flattened himself against the wall. "Oh no, Doctor Death! I need a car. Oh man, if they catch me here, my butt is toast!"

He wanted to run, but the same deep instinct told him to stay put. He might get his chance to escape. He just had to wait for them to leave. Dr. Death looked very unhappy about something, and he knew something bad was going to happen. He was not within earshot, but that did not matter.

"So! Laurel and his dumb friend Hardy decided to show their faces here!" Lesnar growled as he approached Bauer and Cook as they got out of the car. Masters was following behind him, knowing full well what would happen next.

"Wha-" Before Bauer or Cook could utter a word, Lesnar pulled a gun with a muffler from his coat pocket, and shot Bauer at point blank range in the chest. He sagged to the ground, dead. Cook's green eyes widened and he screamed loudly in shock.

"_Nooo!_ What the hell are you doing? You just killed him … what for?" He wailed as he bent down, kneeling beside his stricken partner. His face was paper white.

"Do you have to ask? Where is McCormick? Talk! I'm gonna kill you too, you two-timing loser!" Lesnar barked, pointing the gun at Cook, who was shaking like a twig in the wind, standing up, holding his hands up in front of him.

"McCormick? I-I don't understand. What do you mean? The ambulance brought him here a coupla hours ago, didn't it? Why are you asking me where he is? You just killed Bauer and now … what is going on here?" Cook stammered.

"Useless liar! McCormick is gone, you and your dead friend kidnapped him, and I want him back before he wakes up. Now read my lips, nitwit, _where is_ _McCormick?"_

"You better talk, Cookie, before the doctor loses his temper with you," Masters interjected, looking at Cook with something like stern pity in his eyes.

"We never saw McCormick again after he was taken away in the ambulance, I swear, Mr Lesnar. If he is not at this hospital, where could he be? He must have escaped somehow, I don't know. He-"

"Impossible. He was heavily sedated, and would never wake up from the drugs you injected into him. He could not have walked even if he tried," Lesnar went on, the gun still trained on Cook.

"You and Bauer took him, and contacted your body snatcher buddies from the Middle East, to sell what was mine to begin with. But you were dumb enough to show your faces here, after everything, trying to fool me! Clever stunt, that, with the sheets tied to the bed and all. But nobody ever steals from me and lives to tell the tale!"

"No, Mr Lesnar, honestly, we didn't do it, I know Bauer said-" Cook looked genuinely confused.

"Shut up! You are going with us and show us to where you've hidden McCormick, or die right here with your slimy friend."

"But I'm telling you-"

"Come, Masters, take this filth to my car over there, before I blow him to pieces," Lesnar spat, shoving the gun into Cook's back.

"Where are we going?" Masters asked, as he grabbed Cook by the arm, dragging him away.

"To their cosy little hidey-hole, where else? I know exactly where these pigs do their business. The Carmichael Hotel in Beverly Hills; they have some rooms hidden down in the basement," Lesnar said, shoving the poor, hapless Cook forwards.

"What about Bauer? You can't leave him there!" Cook protested in a shaky voice. This madman knew everything! They never told him where they run their trafficking business. They kept it a secret for years. He must have had them tailed long before he asked them to kidnap McCormick.

"No, he's going to take a ride in the trunk of my car, and so will you," Lesnar said in a cold voice. "Masters, take the rope in the trunk and tie this piece of garbage up. I don't want him to pull another kind of stunt and try to get away."

"You made a big mistake with McCormick here, man! He was trouble, right from the start. He must have escaped from the hospital, and if he goes to the cops-" Cook finally found his voice back.

"You talk too much for a dead man, friend Cook! Masters, tie this fool up and tape his big mouth shut before I lose my temper and kill him before he could show us where they have hidden McCormick," Lesnar said angrily, opening the trunk if his car.

"Our time is beginning to run out. The drugs will not last longer than sixteen hours, and we have a lot to take out of that kid. Call Briggs, tell him to send four guys over to the Carmichael. We have to find McCormick, and fast!"

00000

McCormick watched the scene unfold before his eyes in the parking lot. Saw how the doctor just shot someone in cold blood, grabbing the other guy, shoving him into the trunk of his car. Then his sidekick picked the dead man up, throwing him inside the trunk with the other guy. He shook his head in disbelief. That doctor is positively evil, without a conscience! The devil could learn some tricks from him. Anger began to churn inside him. This madman has to be stopped before he kills more people. This sick, twisted plot to get to Hardcastle, has just taken one more turn too much. And he, Mark McCormick, did not even know or understand the half of it! He had to act fast. He ran to the parking lot, to the gray sedan sitting there, with the door of the passenger side still open. A wave of nausea passed over him at the sight of the blood on the asphalt.

"Geez, I'm in a nightmare, here. It's like one of those blood and gore movies gone wrong!" he muttered in a shaky voice. The keys were still in the ignition. McCormick slid behind the wheel of the car, and slamming the doors shut, and noticed the car phone.

"Looks like I found the right car at the wrong time. I can call Hardcase now, and I bet the old donkey would be glad to hear my voice for once in his life," McCormick said as he lifted the receiver from its cradle.

19

The heavens opened up, and the rain came down in torrents. Hardcastle was sitting in the passenger seat, while Frank was driving him home. It was gray outside, the skies were weeping, just like his heart. He stared out of the window, seeing nothing through the blur of his own tears. Frank was right. What would he do once he got home? But it was too late now, too late to turn back. As they were driving in the rain, in silence, Hardcastle remembered the dangerous, high speed chases he and McCormick had. Going wild here in the streets of L.A. McCormick, driving like a certified lunatic, in that go-devil of a red firecracker of his. So sure of himself, with that crazy, infectious laugh, the wind playing with his shaggy curls. When he was behind the wheel, he was totally in control, without fear, becoming one with that machine. The sky was the limit for that kid, the determination and deep steel buried in his spine clearly visible in his remarkable eyes. Hardcastle would forever remember those clear, dark-rimmed blue eyes, that seemed to glow with life. They were gentle and expressive, with great strength of character shining from them. The kid certainly had a complex personality, requiring a lot of understanding. He was highly spirited, nervous, awfully moody and testy at times, but he had an amazing zest for life, so apparent in his sense of humour that had everybody in stitches so often. That infectious laugh - nobody could forget that silly half-assed little snicker he had, when he got a kick out of something ridiculous. Under that bravery, hardness, and cocky attitude there was a gentle, caring and sensitive soul, apparent when his guard was down. Vulnerability showed in his features, and it sometimes made him look strangely lovely in a childlike kind of way, that's probably why he made so many girls weak in the knees. He had a big heart, and people – including the never-ending list of girlfriends - took advantage of that in the past. He had the bad habit of trusting the wrong people. In spite of that, the kid had all the right stuff. And now … all is wasted, all is gone, forever. Hardcastle slowly shook his head, and wiped the tears from his eyes. His heart felt like a burned, blighted landscape after a nuclear explosion, lifeless and gored. Everything was turning dark inside him, like a total eclipse that would last forever. The sun would never shine for him again. Not after this, his crime fighting career was over. Retirement, depression and death are all that's left for him in this life. A long, shuddering sigh escaped from him.

Frank looked at Milt, troubled. He was at a loss for words; he knew nothing he ever said would take his friend's pain away. Hell, in his own heart, the anger and the hurt felt like an unbearable physical pain. What on earth was going to become of Milt, was an educated guess. He wasn't young any more, and this last shock may finally break him. He saw McCormick's impish, dimpled smile before his eyes, his vitality and strength, and who would ever forget the cocky, reckless mouth running at the speed of sound? Life was simply not fair at all. Frank also sighed heavily, he wished he could talk to McCormick for only five more minutes, telling him how much he would be missed, especially by Milt.

20

McCormick picked up the phone and tried to dial Hardcastle's number. His hands shook so much that he only got the number right after the third attempt.

"What the heck is wrong with my dumb fingers? Can't get the damn number right. Aarrggg! Come on, you stupid dope!" McCormick cursed under his breath. Finally he heard the phone ring on the other side.

"C'm on, Hardcase, pick up the phone!" He let it ring for a while, but there was no answer. He was getting nervous and quite agitated.

"Where are you, you donkey? Get outta the crapper and answer the damn phone!" McCormick cried angrily, and slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

"I'm wasting time, here. Frank would know what to do," McCormick gasped, exasperated, and dialled the number at the precinct. The gray mists from the drugs still clouded his vision, and he felt hot and cold at the same time.

"Officer Dahn speaking, how may I help you?" a voice said on the other side. It was a woman's voice, and altogether unfamiliar.

"Thank Heavens! Listen, may I speak to Frank Harper? It's kinda urgent, here," McCormick said, relief flooding through him.

"Lieutenant Harper is not in at the moment, is there a message?"

"Oh, heck … yeah, yeah there is, tell him Mark McCormick called, and it's urgent, I have to speak with him-"

"What? Mark McCormick? That's impossible!" Officer Dahn sounded shocked.

"Huh? What do you-"

"Listen, here, mister, what kind of a sick joke is this? You crazy sonofa-"

"No, no! It really is me! I am not-"

"Listen, I'll have your number traced and I will report you for wilfully wasting our time! How dare you? You ought to be locked up for-"

McCormick took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it in disbelief, his face twisted in a scowl. He would have looked really comical, had the situation not been so grave.

"What the … hello, hello?" he said into the receiver, but officer what's her face had hung up on him. McCormick's jaw dropped nearly to his chest in disbelief. Things were going to hell in a handbasket at the speed of white lightning.

"Everyone really thinks I'm dead! What am I going to do, now? Wait, try Hardcase again."

But alas, there was still no answer at Gull's Way. There was no way he was going to leave a message on that dumb answering machine. Poor ol' Hardcase would get the fright of his life. He'd think the darn thing was haunted.

00000

Lesnar's car screeched to a halt in front of the Carmichael Hotel. Another sedan stopped dead behind him. Four goons the size of Hulk Hogan jumped out, armed to the teeth. Lesnar and Masters got out, and opened the trunk of the car. Lesnar pulled the poor hapless Cook, who was on the brink of losing his mind, out of the trunk, and dragged him to the hotel side entrance by the hair. They went down the basement stairs, to the rooms where the 'merchandise' was held before they were whisked off to an unknown destination, never to return.

"Show us where McCormick is, now! You and that miserable turd, Bauer, just couldn't wait to stab me in the back, just like that! Man, how stupid could you get? You knew who you were dealing with!" Lesnar ranted and raved, dragging Cook with him.

The poor guy's eyes were rolling wetly in their sockets, and he knew that this was the end of the line for him. He would die just like Bauer, with a bullet in the head.

"Double crossing fool, did you really think you could get away with it?" Masters added to Cook's misery.

Larry Cook was a man who landed in this downward spiral of deceit, drug dealing and human trafficking, not because he was a bad man, but because he was a desperate man. He was an obsessive gambler, and in less than a year he got himself into really bad debt with the bookies. There really was no way out, except that of accepting questionable well-paying jobs to keep the bookies out of his hair, and away from his wife and two kids. Although his family abandoned him long ago, because of his severe, debilitating gambling problem, he still did not want them dead. And now that his hourglass was running empty, he wished dearly that he could make amends in some way. He thought that maybe God would forgive him his sins, if he did this one good thing in his miserable life. He would never see his family again, and after the brutal murder of his friend, Terrence Bauer, he had no hope of getting away from the likes of Alan Lesnar, or that filthy bastard trafficker Abdurrahman Ijaz, for that matter. He had made up his mind now, that this one time, the poor McCormick guy, wherever he was, would escape the clutches of this lunatic doctor who had destroyed so many innocent lives in the past. The curtain would go down for him after this last act. He would die with honor. He stopped in front of one of the doors leading to the 'holding cells', and slowly opened it. The room was empty.

"Well, where is McCormick?" Lesnar barked.

"Looks like Abdurrahman Ijaz got him before you did. He was in town, a big shot like yourself should have known. You're losing your touch! Like Bauer said, McCormick is a real pretty kid, and he is worth a lot more than you and your sidekick here were offering us. The old sheik Achmed Shabhir would be mighty pleased! He loves younger guys of McCormick's type, and he pays really well. We figured, after the job was done, you would kill us anyway, and Bauer's idea really sounded, well, more plausible and profitable. I mean, we all get something out of this, you got your revenge, we get our dough," Cook said, trying his best to sound business-like and matter-of-factly.

Lesnar was at a loss for words, his face a red, twisted mask of hatred and anger. His murderous black eyes were like coals of fire from the bowels of hell.

"What a pity, after all the trouble you fools have gone through," Masters added, shocked at this turn of events. They would never find another healthy specimen like McCormick again, and they had lost millions of dollars. It was a sore blow.

"You have ruined everything!" Lesnar screamed as he raised his gun, pointing it at Cook's head.

There was another muffled shot, and Cook was dead before he hit the floor.

21

McCormick looked at his surroundings. Where in this whole blasted city was this Z.K. Matthews hospital anyway? he wondered as he pulled from the hospital parking lot. The county was enormous, and he sure was a little lost, aggravated by the dizziness that came and went. He wondered how he would keep the car on the road, for his vision was still deteriorating from whatever drugs they pumped into him. But that was the least of his problems. He had to get to Hardcastle, and fast. Driving carefully, eyes squinting, as he tried to concentrate on his surroundings. Then rain started to fall, quickly turning into a downpour. Visibility soon reduced to a silver curtain obscuring McCormick's view even more. "

Aww man, it never rains, but it pours! I can't see a blessed thing!" he groaned, and turned into a side street. He brought the car to a stop next to what looked like a warehouse. The outline of some parked cars were barely visible in the pouring rain.

"Now I have to wait for this freakin' rainstorm to pass; this is just great, just peachy keen!" Dizziness overcame him again, and he rested his head against the steering wheel.

The rain continued to come down in torrents. He drifted in and out of consciousness. An hour later the downpour turned into drizzle, and a middle aged guy in a blue raincoat left the warehouse. He was on his way to his own car, when he noticed the car parked next to his own. The curly head of its occupant was slumped against the steering wheel. He looked unconscious. The man, a father of three kids, sensed that something was wrong. Not of the meddling kind, he nonetheless decided to see if the kid inside the car needed his help. He rapped against the roof of the car, hard. The curly head lifted from the steering wheel. He rapped against the roof again. Then the window was rolled down, and rather large eyes in a very pale face looked up at him. They looked dazed and confused. Was the kid drugged? He looked decidedly ill. He was dressed in a hospital smock that seemed too big for his skinny body. What was he doing here if he really belonged in hospital?

"You alright, son?" the guy in the raincoat asked.

"The rain has stopped," McCormick said, his voice sounding hoarse.

"Yeah, what a relief. You need any help?"

"Could you … er … tell me where I am? I mean, I think I'm a little lost."

"You sure look lost. You look sick, too," the man said with a frown.

"I'll be okay. I just need to know where I am right now, the rain, you know, I couldn't see where I was going," McCormick managed a small, apologetic smile.

"You shouldn't be out here if you looked like that, I would go back to the hospital if I was you, son."

"Trust me, mister, that's the last place I wanna be right now. I need to get to Malibu, it's a matter of life and death," McCormick said, the dazed look leaving his eyes a little.

"That so? Well, this is the Culver City MacSteel Warehouse, as you can see. Ya better go now before it starts pouring again," the man said, getting uneasy, not wanting to be involved with this strange kid any more. He turned away and went to his own car.

"Culver City, huh? Thanks!" McCormick called after the man, and pulled from the parking lot.

22

As Milt and Frank arrived at Gull's Way the rainstorm abated a little. They got out and went into the main house. It felt cold, empty, the atmosphere oppressive.

"Milt, really, I still think this is a bad idea leaving you alone like this," Frank tried again.

"And I told you that I wanted to be here, alone, for just awhile," Milt stated, shaking his head.

"I shouldn't have brought you here. We should go back. This place feels … I dunno … kinda empty."

"Frank, please, I need time to clear my head a little, I'll call you as soon as I am done here."

"Well, if you are absolutely sure about this. I'll be at the station if you need me. Call me, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Promise?"

"Scout's honor."

Frank looked at Milt hard for a second, and then turned to leave. He stopped and turned back.

"Hey, I almost forgot something. Something very important," Frank said as he fumbled for something in his shirt pocket.

His fingers closed around McCormick's medallion for a moment, and then he held it out. Milt's stormy eyes turned dark with pain.

"I took it when they uh … took Mark away … I hope I did the right thing," Frank trailed off.

Milt put out a shaky hand and Frank placed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it. He was at a loss for words, his eyes turning moist again. Frank gave him a last look, his own eyes fogging over.

"Thanks, Frank," Milt choked out.

Frank patted him on the arm. "You're welcome," he said in a hoarse voice, and turned to leave.

Milt just stood there, rooted to the spot, watching Frank disappear through the front door. He turned around, looking terribly old, bent and tired, and shuffled towards his desk. His legs buckled and he almost didn't make it as far as his chair. He collapsed into it, still clutching the medal in his fist, his knuckles white. The floodgates opened and he cried like a child, with his head in his hands. The medal was cold against his wet cheek. As cold and dead as the kid who wore it, laying in a morgue in some hospital he could not even remember the name of. His heart felt like a gaping wound, filled with poison, one that would never heal again. This was the end of the line. He simply could not see any good coming from this tragedy, save depression, loneliness and death. He felt as devastated and broken as on that hellish day in 1972 when he had lost his own son, Thomas. He loved that goofy, noisy young rascal - briefly, but it hurt just as much. A second lease on life was given to him, a second chance to have someone he really could count on and care about. And the worst part is he never told Mark how he felt. He also never got the chance to say goodbye to the kid. He was torn away into eternity, there one moment, gone the next. Just like Thomas. It was simply too much to bear. He stood up, looked at the empty den, then looking disgustedly around him. Who would be sitting with him in this infernal den and watch old John Wayne movies now? No one! Who would steal the remote and change channels just to yank his chain a little? No one! Who was gonna watch movies and gobble up ice cream by the gallon or popcorn by the handfuls? _No one!_ No more laughter, no more silly jokes and mock fights (or real ones for that matter), no more guerrilla basketball, no more of anything at all! Hardcastle's face twisted and he flew into a rage. He grabbed the ornaments on the fireplace, and smashed them to smithereens against the walls with all his strength. He broke into a sweat and gasped, his face a mask of pain, despair and disgust. A deep, dark, unspeakable hatred smouldered in his heart for the unnamed person who had murdered what was dear to him in cold blood. He grabbed the lamp on his desk, and tossed it with a grunt and a mighty heave through the window. Glass shattered with a huge crash as the window exploded. Glass shards flew in all directions. Hardcastle stood there gasping, surveying the damage to his den. Then, more disgusted than ever, he turned on his heels, and stormed out of the front door, slamming it with such force, it made the rest of the unbroken windows rattle in their frames. He stormed off in the direction of the beach.

When he reached the shore, he stopped and stared at the gray waves that came crashing down. He suddenly felt older than the hills, his limbs felt like lead, his heart like a dead piece of rock. He sank down to his knees, and let the feelings of hopelessness and guilt wash over him like the tide. The feelings of guilt ate at his heart like a cancer roaring through a terminal patient at the speed of a wildfire. He was assaulted by them. He never should have sent McCormick to prison, he wished that he never even met the kid. Why did he ever land into his courtroom? Damn that curly-headed rogue, how could he get under his, Hardcase Hardcastle's, skin like that? It was not supposed to happen, they were not even in the same ballpark, town, or even on the same bloody planet! Yet even after as little as two years the kid felt like family. Then feelings of guilt attacked him about the time McCormick was in prison. He never talked about it much. What went on in there? Was he scared, hurt or even worse? All of it was his, Hardcastle's, fault. And what about all the mishaps and injuries the kid endured because of all the zany cases they went on? All in the name of justice. He was not a cop. Yet he had to deal with the hardened, unredeemable criminals, the scum of the earth. How many times did he insult the kid, telling him he wasn't too bright or thinking he wasn't good enough to go to places with him, like on that trip to Washington? _He_ was not good enough to know someone like McCormick, who was far more loyal or kind-hearted than he could ever hope to be. How many times did McCormick's keen intelligence get _him _out of trouble, and how many times was his butt nearly cooked, had McCormick not hauled it out the fire? That kid was a hero, and he deserved so much more. He would never know now how much he really was appreciated. The unnecessary insults, the endless, boring chores McCormick had to face and do, all of it were waves of guilt, drowning Milt.

McCormick had died needlessly, and that for a stupid pool filter! That damned pool, he wished that he could blow it up in the air, together with that accursed house he was so proud of. He felt like burning down the entire yard with all the fancy stuff in it, dousing it in gasoline. Suddenly he hated the place, and he hated himself even more. He did not even get a chance to even apologise to McCormick. The way he felt now, he wished that he could exchange places with McCormick. He kneeled there, on his knees, bent, letting the waves of guilt wash over him again and again.

23

McCormick was struggling to keep the car on the road. The dizziness and nausea seemed to be getting worse with every passing moment. He was driving on gut feeling and instinct only, for his eyes did not want to focus any more. The late afternoon traffic was also piling up and it was getting increasingly difficult for him to keep out of harm's way. A huge truck swerved past him, spraying the windshield with water. The road was wet, and it was raining hard again.

"Get lost, willya! My frigging eyes! What the hell is wrong with them?" McCormick shouted angrily.

Another even bigger truck swerved past him again, spraying even more water onto the windshield.

"Arrrgggh! Seven different kinds of crap!" he swore, rubbing his aching eyes.

He almost lost control of the car. He wondered how he was going to get onto the Pacific Coast Highway without causing a huge accident, or worse, a mile-long fender bender. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep the car from leaving the road.

00000

Hardcastle sat on the beach for a long while, until he was nearly soaked to the skin by the rain. He got up wearily, and headed for the main house. He stopped at the front door, but turned around and left for the gatehouse. He would just sit there and think, trying to figure out what to do next. The main house was just too oppressive and way too empty. Slowly he made his way to the gatehouse. The door was unlocked and he went inside. He could almost feel McCormick's presence in there. The gatehouse was comparatively neat for a change. McCormick was a slob - the worst kind. He would leave his ratty sneakers, his dirty socks, his pants and shirts lying everywhere. Newspapers, books, records and tapes would be scattered on the floor. The place was usually a rat's nest. But today of all days, McCormick had tidied the place up, leaving only an unwashed plate and cup on the table, and his sports coat on the coffee table. No clothes were hanging from the pictures on the walls. There were no dirty socks or sneakers on the stairs either. Hardcastle went to the fireplace, and took a framed picture of McCormick in his racing gear from the shelf. He collapsed onto the couch, and simply stared at the picture. This was all he had left of McCormick - memories and a few photographs. His mind was whirling, and he simply did not know how he would cope with everything in the following days. Arrangements had to be made for the funeral, and he did not have the strength to start on them. All the rest of the family had to be notified, and Aunt May and Aunt Zora – what were they going to think? They loved McCormick, too. And what about that miserable excuse for a lounge lizard, Sonny Daye? Would the damn fool even care about the death of a son he never wanted? The horror, the memory of seeing McCormick so badly injured and broken would forever haunt Milt. Alone again, he thought. All of this was just too much, too sudden. Tonto had hung up his gear and disappeared into the land of the spirits of the west and he, the masked man, the Lone Ranger, was truly _Lone_in every sense of the word. It was time for the Lone Ranger to hang up his gear too, and disappear into some old age home with a dumb name like Shady Oaks or Pines or something. Hah! Those places where busy corporate executives dumped their parents should be called Geriatrics Galore or Death's Door. Nobody could ever replace McCormick. No more cases for the high plains drifter and his faithful sidekick. For a long time he sat there, with the picture in his hand, staring at it, seeing nothing.

24

After what felt like an eternity, McCormick turned off onto the PCH without any serious mishaps, save for a few near-misses and a lot of swearing, mostly by the occupants of the vehicles that tried to stay out of McCormick's way. He was driving like a drunken sailor. Finally, with a sigh relief, he turned into the driveway of Gull's Way. He was still trembling like a mouse in a trap. The trip from Culver City to Malibu was a nightmare of the worst kind. As he brought the car to a stop in front of the main house, he briefly let his head rest against the steering wheel.

"Thank Heavens, I made it," he murmured, unable to stop shaking.

Inside the gatehouse, Hardcastle still sat on the couch, with the picture of McCormick in his hands. Overcome by grief, he decided to pray. McCormick stumbled out of the car, nearly spilling himself on the wet driveway. The dizziness was bad, he could not keep his balance any more. It was raining hard again, and he was quickly drenched to the skin. He made for the front door, and nearly spilled himself again on the doorsteps. As he went inside, he saw the mess in the den, the place looked like a trailer park hit by a tornado.

"Judge!" he called, panic welling up in his chest. What if those crazy bastards got to him?

"Judge, where are you? Judge, Juuudge!" he called for his friend as he searched the house.

Panting, he stumbled out the front door again, into the pouring rain, heading for the gatehouse. He hoped to find Hardcastle there, he desperately wished for him to be there. Hardcastle put the picture on the coffee table, buried his face in his hands, and uttered a heartfelt prayer, something he felt was long overdue.

"Dear God, why did you take McCormick? Why? You know I loved that kid. What am I going to do now, how am I supposed to get through this? Taken so young, he should have had years – and here I still am, an old man. I don't understand. Why did you send him to me just to take him away again? All of this is my fault! Tell him, please tell him how sorry I am. Forgive me for what I have done. I wish that I could only see him for five more minutes to tell him myself, but …"

McCormick was about to enter the gatehouse when suddenly he heard Hardcastle talking, no, praying. He was struck by the raw pain, sadness and grief in that gruff voice, and as he opened the door he heard every word. His eyes grew moist. He switched the light on and stood there in the doorway, fascinated. Hardcastle was sitting on the couch, his hands buried in his face, and Mark could not believe what he was hearing.

"Judge?" he called out softly, not wanting to startle Hardcastle. Hardcastle lifted his head, and stared at the direction of the soft voice he had just imagined he heard.

McCormick was standing in the doorway, bathed in the light, wearing some kind of weird smock that clung to his slender body. Droplets sparkled on his wet skin, on his face and in his curly hair. His eyes were huge and moist - glittering sky-blue pools of light.

The shock of seeing McCormick standing there, in the doorway, was like touching a live wire, no, a bolt of blue lightning. With a grunt he jumped up, sidestepped, knocking over the small side table together with the lamp. His eyes were like saucers, all the colour had drained from his face. A shaky hand went up to his mouth. He gasped, his jaw dropping almost to his chest, standing glued to the spot, paralyzed with fear. His mouth was opening and closing like that of a fish on dry ground, but no sound escaped from him.

"Judge, it's me …" McCormick tried again, his voice a hoarse, shaky whisper.

"Mc-McCormick, you're dead!" Hardcastle finally croaked in a choked voice. He looked as if he were struck by lightning, ready to faint. He moved another step backwards, nearly tripping over one of the legs of the small table.

"No, no, Judge, I am not dead. I'm-"

"Im-impossible! You died this morning! I _saw_ it! I-I'm not seeing this, no, I'm not!" Hardcastle stammered, shaking his head vigorously, holding his hands in front of him as if he were warding off evil.

"Judge, that's not what happened, I'm alive."

"Y-you _are_ dead! There was so much blood … broken bones … you were lying there on the ground, I saw it, I saw it, I was there, I held you …" Hardcastle looked like he could drop dead in fear and anguish at any moment.

McCormick came a little closer, and Hardcastle backed away again, raising his hands in defence.

"No, stay away, I can't be seeing this, this is _insane! _You are a ghost coming to huh-haunt me," Hardcastle stammered, his eyes huge and wet, his face paper white.

"I'm not a ghost, Judge, I swear. It really is me, in the flesh. Besides, you've never believed in ghosts, anyway," McCormick tried to reason with Hardcastle, managing a shaky smile. His eyes sparkled, aglow with life. Hardcastle's eyes grew even bigger, looking ready to pop out of their sockets. Ghosts don't have such animated eyes, do they?

"Are … are you an angel?" Hardcastle asked at last, with so much awe in his voice that McCormick closed his eyes, shaking his head, not believing what he had just heard.

This was incredible, and that prayer had moved him deeply. The revelation, that he, McCormick the dumb ex-con, was loved and wanted, filled him with joy.

"I think that's already been established, Judge," McCormick joked, smiling broadly, joy emanating from him. This was a reunion out of this world.

"But, but … this is … you rascal, if you're not an angel either, then what _are _you?" Hardcastle asked, bewildered - even in death the kid had a smart mouth.

In death? _Is _the kid really dead? He looked very much alive, albeit ill and pale, but alive. This did not make sense at all! McCormick took a step closer, and Hardcastle stepped backwards again. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them again, McCormick was still there.

"Come here, what are you doing? It is me, I am alive. Don't be afraid of me. I'm not a ghost or an angel or anything!" McCormick said, smiling, coming closer to the judge, standing in front of him.

Milt stared at him, at his wet curls, his glistening eyes, then down at his bare legs and feet, the long, wiry legs looking the same as ever. There was some mud on the right foot. Mud. Ghosts and angels don't have mud on their feet, they don't get wet in the rain! Or do they? He put out a hand and touched McCormick's hair. His hand did not go through the kid's head, like it would in a horror movie either. He touched McCormick's bare arm, and it was wet, but warm. Knowing that something very strange and wonderful was going on here, he suddenly realized that he might not be seeing an apparition of some kind after all. But his mind was battling fiercely with what his eyes were seeing.

"Judge, I don't really know how to explain it all to you, but somebody really wanted you to think that I was dead, and that all of this was a trick; I was kidnapped," McCormick tried, seeing the confusion in his friend's eyes.

"A trick? But … I don't understand. I must be dreaming or something," Milt mused, shaking his head.

"No! This was a trick! It's all crazy, I know, I woke up in this hospital, drugged. I've been feeling awfully bad ever since I woke up. These people did something to me, to … well … make you think that I was killed, I don't understand most of it myself! But I managed to escape. I swear, I was incredibly lucky, you know, these crazy people wanted to cut me up into neat little pieces," McCormick tried to explain, unable to find the right words.

"But I'm here now, and everything's gonna be alright."

Hardcastle looked into Mark's eyes, and finally realized that what he was seeing before him was real, McCormick was alive, this was no illusion, no dream, no haunting. The realization sank in with a crash. He grabbed McCormick by the shoulders, and then pulled him into a fierce hug. The body in his arms felt warm, it had substance, the bones and muscles in the kid's back could be felt through the smock. He grabbed a fistful of curls, feeling the silky texture. He could feel McCormick's arms go around him, holding him. The kid was no ghost, he was real. Tears of immense relief and gratitude spilled from his eyes. Everything was as real as could be.

"Thank you, God," he breathed as he held what he had thought he'd lost forever.

25

All of the excitement and trauma was too much for McCormick. Hardcastle felt him trembling and held him at arm's length again. His eyes seemed unfocused and he swayed on his feet.

"McCormick, what's wrong?" Milt asked, his voice unsteady.

"I – I don't feel so good, Judge, the drugs … whatever it was they gave me, it … it …," McCormick's voice faltered, his body went limp and his knees buckled.

"Hey, whoa!" Hardcastle caught him just before he could collapse to the floor. Milt half dragged, half lifted Mark to the couch, and lay him down onto it, lifting his feet up.

"McCormick, McCormick!" Hardcastle called out, taking his face in his hands. It looked a little fragile and too pale. There was a bruise on his jaw. Milt could see Mark's pulse flutter at the base of his throat. It was much too fast. The kid was out like a light, but he was alive and breathing. Milt stared at McCormick as if he had seen him for the first time. What the hell was going on, here? Here was McCormick, lying on the couch, alive and whole. Where were the massive injuries, the blood, the gaping hole in his forehead? He gently touched the forehead, it felt a little too warm, but there was not as much as a tiny scratch to be seen. The eyelids had a bit of a bruised look to them, but there was no sign of blood inside the half-open mouth either. Hardcastle got up, and went to the bathroom to get a towel. He found McCormick's bathrobe in there, and hurried back to the unconscious young man on the couch. He took the wet hospital gown off, and started to rub the kid dry. Incredibly, there were no signs of the other terrible injuries as he looked at McCormick's ribcage, save for some mild bruising over the left ribs. The horrific gaping hole in his torso was gone, and the ribs moving under unbroken skin with every breath, were whole. As Milt dried Mark's right arm off, he was struck with a feeling of unreality. From the bony crest of the shoulder down to the rather large hand, there were no scrapes or contusions, either. But upon closer inspection a pinhole and a small bruise were visible in the crook of the kid's slender arm. It looked like a puncture hole, the kind made by a needle.

"I'll be damned!" Hardcastle murmured in wonder. "A trick, he says, maybe I am not losing my mind after all. He really is alive, lying here on this couch, before my very eyes."

Carefully, Hardcastle dressed McCormick in his bathrobe. He went up the stairs of the loft and took the comforter from the bed, and covered the kid warmly. He hurried to the phone, and called Frank at the precinct. Luckily McCormick had remembered to pay the phone bill.

"Lieutenant Harper," the voice on the other side sounded.

"Frank! Frank, you better get down here, now!" Milt said hoarsely, barely able to contain his excitement.

"Whoa, Milt! Hey, what's wrong?" Frank asked, worried now. Milt sounded really strange, and it scared him.

"Just come, Frank! You wouldn't believe me if I told you over the phone, it is too crazy!"

"What's going on, Milt, you're scaring me, here! Tell me what's happening!"

"Frank, don't ask any more questions, just come, _now!"_ Milt begged, sounding stranger by the second.

Frank was genuinely scared now, it sounded as if Milt was delusional, finally cracking up, going over the brink of madness. He should never have left Milt alone at his house. He sounded insane, capable of doing anything, maybe even killing himself.

"Milt, just keep calm, all right, I'm on my way," Frank added, grabbing his jacket and car keys.

"Please, hurry!" Milt added anxiously, and put the receiver down. He was shaking so badly he dropped the telephone and it hit the floor with a crash.

He went to McCormick, lying so still on the couch. He took the towel and gently rubbed McCormick's curls dry. Another pinprick within a small bruise was visible at the back of Mark's neck. What had these bastards done to the kid?

"I thought I'd lost ya, kid. You gave me one helluva scare, sneaking up on me like that. But I got you back, I can't believe it, I just can't believe it," Hardcastle murmured, running his hand down McCormick's cheek.

Twenty minutes later Frank's car screeched to a halt in front of the main house. He jumped out, into the rain, but heard Milt call him from the gatehouse. He ran over to meet him, but Milt had gone inside again. Frank stormed into the gatehouse.

"Milt, Milt what's wr-," he started, but when he saw McCormick lying on the couch, he stopped dead in his tracks. His dark eyes were like saucers, his jaw dropped, his mouth trembled. He looked ready to faint. He grabbed Milt by the arm and pointed at McCormick, his arm trembling uncontrollably. The only sound escaping him was a hoarse, choked whimper.

"T-tuh-tell me … tell me I'm nuh-not seeing this!" Frank stammered at last, clinging to Milt for support, for his legs had turned to water.

"That was my reaction, too! Believe me, I-"

"Milt, th-that's McCormick! He's … he's dead! W-we were there, we saw it happen! What is this new devilry?" Frank gasped, his voice like that of a small, frightened child.

"Here, sit down, you're gonna fall and hurt yourself," Milt offered, helping Frank to the smaller single couch.

"Punch me, kick me – anything! This is crazy, I'm losing my mind!" Frank pleaded, he never sounded so scared in his entire life.

"I told you that you wouldn't believe me! But I'm telling you, you_ are_ seeing this. He just walked in here, soaking wet, and I thought he was a ghost coming to haunt me."

"Huh?"

"Then I thought he was an angel," Hardcastle said with a small shaky laugh, "but then he started talking to me, and I touched him, and-"

"_Whaaat?_"

"Yes, exactly. The kid is alive, Frank, he said something about all of this – his death – that it was a trick, it was staged or some damn thing," Milt tried to explain, fumbling for words. Another startled "huuuh?" was all Frank could utter, for he still could not believe what he was seeing or hearing. He felt like having a fit from sensory overload.

"C'm here, touch him, he's for real," Milt said, pulling Frank from the couch.

Frank came closer and put out a trembling hand. Hesitantly he touched McCormick's hand, and for a second he thought that his fingers would go through the hand. It didn't. The skin was warm, and the bones inside the hand could be felt. Frank withdrew his hand quickly. He looked at Milt with huge, unbelieving eyes.

"See? He's alive," Milt said softly, his voice filled with wonder.

Frank looked at the pale face of the young man, saw the gentle rise and fall of the chest. He shook his head and let out a shaky sigh.

"And the injuries we saw? What about _those? _You and I both saw it; it was ghastly. I swear, somebody must've put something in my coffee. Where are the injuries, Milt? Can you tell me that?"

"See for yourself," Milt said, pulling the comforter away.

He gently turned McCormick onto his left side, and opened the bathrobe, exposing his right side and back. He took the kid's right arm from the sleeve and lifted it. Frank just stared.

"But his ribs, his spine … they were _shattered._How could this be? He is breathing. Look at his chest – completely unscathed. No way, Milt! My eyes are not seeing this. And where is the gaping hole? What about all the blood … this is impossible. Things like these don't just happen in real life, man!" Frank said, still shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Apparently, they do," Hardcastle mused, "but the truth is, I can't explain any of this, but McCormick told me that he was kidnapped, drugged, taken to the hospital, and that everything was a trick to make me believe that he was killed in that hit and run accident. This is unbelievable, I know, he also said that he had somehow escaped with his life from that hospital."

Frank just stared at him, still unconvinced. He watched as Milt turned McCormick onto his back, covering him up warmly again. McCormick groaned softly and his eyelids fluttered. The long lashes lifted briefly from his eyes. They appeared a little murky and did not seem to focus on anything. They closed again. Realisation sank into him with the same force as it did with Milt.

"Mark?" Frank called softly, and knelt down next to the couch. He ran a hand through McCormick's curls.

"Can you hear me? It's me, Frank."

"Hmm …" McCormick groaned softly, but did not open his eyes. Frank looked at Milt with an expression of total amazement in his eyes.

"This is … this is like a miracle!" he said, thunderstruck.

"Amen to that, biggest damn miracle there ever was! Here I sat, already planning the kid's funeral, crying my frigging eyes out, and in he walks, as if nothing ever happened. And look," Milt said as he took the hospital smock, handing it to Frank, "this is the hospital smock he was wearing when he got here."

Frank took it, and stared at it.

"But how did he get here? I mean … hey, I remember something. There is a sedan parked outside. He must've gotten here in it!"

Milt went to the door and looked out. He never even heard anything.

"Where is it?" "Parked in front of the main house as neat as you please."

"I'll be damned! Here we thought the kid was dead, and in the meantime he was up to his old tricks again, stealing cars, making daring escapes with his skinny backside still in one piece! Here I sat grief-stricken, and he was running around butt-naked in that smock. I'm gonna kill him!" Hardcastle said in that mock gruff voice, throwing his arms in the air, a huge smile nearly splitting his face.

"He's a ghost, you cannot kill him again!" Frank joked, and both of them exploded into nervous, boisterous laughter, the kind of laughter one would hear from people who had just escaped death by a hair's breadth. Tears streamed down both their faces, and they laughed until they were out of breath.

26

Frank and Milt, still very shaky from the day's ordeal sat there, looking at the young man lying on the couch. This was the strangest, craziest day in their entire lives, weirder than fiction, stranger than a cheap horror novel. Both of them felt that they had aged at least half a century from this shocking experience.

"We gotta take the kid to LA General, let Charlie do some tests on him," Milt suggested.

"I'll go get the car," Frank nodded in agreement.

"Once he's awake, we might get some answers out of him, for I would love to choke the life outta the maniacs who did this to him, and to me," Milt growled, getting up, taking the comforter off the unconscious Mark.

Frank had pulled his car in front of the gatehouse, and got out to help Milt carry Mark.

"Uh, we can't take him to hospital in that," Milt pointed at the bathrobe, "I'll go get something and put it on him."

"Milt, there is no time! We gotta get him outta here, now. Grab something for him to wear at the hospital, if you have to."

Hardcastle found some clothes for McCormick to wear, and hurried back to him, still lying on the couch, unmoving.

"Geez, the kid is heavy," Milt grunted as they picked Mark up from the couch.

"Wouldn't believe it if you looked at him," Frank agreed, "but this is dead weight, he seems almost comatose," he added worriedly.

Together they laid McCormick down onto the back seat of the car, covering him with the comforter. They made for LA General.

00000

When Charlie Friedman saw McCormick, he almost had a heart attack. He was flabbergasted. McCormick was wheeled to a private room. Charlie took a blood sample for analysis. McCormick was examined thoroughly. The only injury that he had sustained through the whole ordeal was mild bruising to his ribs and jaw. Milt and Frank were in the waiting room, for the results of the blood tests would be available shortly.

"Hey, I forgot! I never called Claudia to tell her what happened. I also have to make some calls to the precinct. Will you be alright, Milt?"

"Yeah, sure," Milt answered, and then sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"What a day this has been, what a day …"

When Charlie came with the results, Milt was already pacing restlessly around the waiting room.

"Milt, I got the results. It is quite unbelievable, let me tell you," Charlie said, shaking his head.

"Why is that?" Milt asked, anxious to hear the results. "That McCormick kid is made of stern stuff. He was indeed drugged, with potentially lethal derivatives. Terrible stuff, one dose of it is so strong that it could shut down a person's system immediately, or cause a deep coma for as long as twelve to eighteen hours. These derivatives are all illegal as well, and have been known to kill patients in the past. They have been banned years ago, and doctors in every hospital in the States had to destroy all of what they had in their stock. Anyone found in possession of these drugs, would lose their medical licence and face ten years behind bars. McCormick was incredibly lucky. He was injected with a potentially lethal dose," Charlie explained.

"Is … is he gonna make it?" Milt asked, getting scared.

"He's going to be okay, Milt, there's nothing to worry about. McCormick has a quick metabolism. His system seems to be working these drugs out, and according to what you told me, he must have regained consciousness as long as seven hours ago. That, in itself is a small miracle. He should not have woken up at all. There should not be any lasting effects, but he will continue to drift in and out of consciousness for a few more hours, and he will be suffering from a headache, dizziness, nausea and possibly sensory discomfort. But he will recover without permanent damage; he is very healthy."

"Thank God. How long will he be here?"

"We will keep him for observation tonight, and hopefully we could release him by tomorrow afternoon. We will give him something to alleviate the dizziness," Charlie concluded. "You can go in and see him now."

"Thank you so much, Charlie, this is indeed good news!" Milt said, relief washing over him once more.

"You're welcome. Call me if you need me."

27

Hardcastle went to the private room where he found McCormick, lying in the white hospital bed. He sat down next to the bed, looking at McCormick's face. It still looked pale and vulnerable. He was still struck by the unreality of what he saw before him. The kid was alive and unhurt. His brain felt like a radio circuit board fried by a power surge. He put out a hand, and rested his palm on McCormick's warm forehead. He gently ran his hand through the curls, and felt the love for the kid, his almost son, tug at his heart. This was a miracle from heaven, for sure. McCormick's eyelids fluttered, and lifted from his eyes. At first everything was a blur, but slowly things came back into focus. The dark-rimmed eyes seemed a little murky when they met with a pair of stormy, bluer ones, beaming with fondness.

"Judge?" McCormick murmured, his voice hoarse.

"I'm right here, kiddo," Milt assured him, and patted him on the arm.

"Where am I?"

"In the hospital."

"Hospital? Wha …?" McCormick asked, his voice alarmed. He lifted his head, and tried to sit up.

"Easy there, kid. You're safe here," Milt said, gently pushing him back onto the bed.

"How did I get here?"

"Frank and I brought you in. You found me in the gatehouse, remember? Then you fainted. But you're gonna be ok."

McCormick relaxed a little, but his eyes scanned his surroundings nervously. His mouth felt dry, and he still had that dinosaur sitting on top of his head. He wiped at his forehead with a rather shaky hand.

"How're ya feeling?" Hardcastle asked, concerned.

"Head hurts like hell, feels like the world's worst hangover," Mark groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, "but otherwise I don't feel too bad. When can we go home?"

"Doc says you'll be kept for observation tonight. He found some potentially lethal drugs in your system, but by some incredible chance, your body seems to be shaking them off."

"Lethal drugs, really? Well, I'll be … no wonder I feel like crap. My brain feels a little scrambled, I can't even think straight."

"You'll feel better by tomorrow. You should try to get some rest. You've been through a lot today," Hardcastle stated, his gruff voice laden with concern.

Mark looked at him, his eyes were clearing a little. His face grew serious.

"Are you all right? You look awful, Judge," he added, his voice anxious.

"Been a helluva day. It _was_ awful. I thought you died, don't you remember?"

"Huh?" McCormick scratched his head. Then the memory of Hardcastle praying in the gatehouse, and getting the fright of his life, flooded back. His eyes grew soft, and a little moist.

"Oh yeah, I remember you thinking that I was a ghost or some damn thing." He managed a small shaky smile.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" Milt growled, trying to hide his feelings when he saw the expression in McCormick's gentle eyes. He was embarrassed by the fact that McCormick had walked in on him while he had confessed his feelings in that prayer. The kid must have heard everything.

"Sorry, Judge, I honestly didn't want to scare you like that. You looked ready to drop dead, you know," McCormick said, his voice a little shaky, trying to make light of the situation.

"I'm just glad you're alive, McCormick. I never want to go through something like that again! It was a nightmare worse than hell, let me tell you that," Milt continued, letting out a sigh of relief. "And when Frank saw you there, he almost died of fright."

"Man, it sounds too crazy. But I don't really know how it all started. I woke up in that hospital, half drugged, but I don't know what happened before that," McCormick continued, looking a little baffled.

"It was horrific, McCormick, absolutely awful. The worst … hey, you should get some rest. We could talk about this tomorrow, kiddo," Hardcastle abruptly changed direction. He was far too emotional to repeat the horror of the accident scene and the pain it had caused him. He did not want to break down in front of the kid. His nerves were shot, and he felt close to tears.

"I'm gonna see where Frank got to," he said, leaving the room.

Five minutes later, Frank entered the room. He was smiling, and he, too, looked like he had survived some kind of war. There were dark circles under his warm brown eyes.

"McCormick!" Frank called out, going to the young man in the bed. He gently ruffled the mop of curls.

"Am I glad to see you alive and well!"

"Hi Frank. Yeah, what a crazy day. Apparently I gave you guys quite a scare, and I don't even know the half of it," McCormick returned with a smile.

"That is the understatement of the year! Milt and I, even Claudia, and everyone at the station are so relieved that you are not dead, it's just incredible. What beats me, is who in the world would go through such lengths just to teach Milt a lesson," Frank continued.

"When I get outta this hospital bed, those creeps are gonna pay!" McCormick growled, his eyes darkening. "My head still feels mushy, but I'll try to tell you everything that I can remember."

"It's okay, kiddo. You can talk about it when you feel better, when your head is a little clearer. Meanwhile, officers Michaelson and Buchannan are going to guard your room tonight. Say, from where did you 'borrow' that car at the house?"

"When I escaped from that zany hospital, I took the car. I think it belonged to the guy that crazy doctor had killed in the hospital parking lot. It sounds nuts, I know. It was a nightmare gone wrong, man. A regular freak show! Tried to call Hardcase and you. Was nearly a hell of a thing. I couldn't see well at all. It's a damned miracle that I didn't wreck it."

"Hell, the plot thickens! Crazy doctor? Murder in the parking lot? Hot damn! I will come by to get your statement tomorrow night. I'm gonna send some guys out there to take some prints in that car," Frank continued. "Where's Milt?"

"He went out looking for you. He looks real bad, Frank! It looks like he could fall flat on his face any minute," McCormick said, his brow furrowing.

"He went through all sorts of hell, you know, he thought he'd lost you, that you were murdered. This thing took years offa him. Sheesh, it nearly killed me, too! Don't _ever _scare us like that again, ya hear!"

"Geez, I'm sorry! You guys really care that much, huh?"

"Do you hafta ask, you crazy, reckless son of a gun?"

Just then, Milt re-entered the room. When he looked at McCormick again, he suddenly remembered that he still had the kid's medallion in his breast pocket.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, moving closer to the bed, "I got something that belongs to you." He took the medallion from his pocket, held it in his hand.

"My medallion?" Mark asked, then fingering his chest, realising for the first time, that his medallion was not hanging around his neck any more.

"Yeah, son," Frank murmured, his voice a little unsteady, "I took it from you when you were taken away to the hospital morgue, after Milt and I found you lying in the road, thinking that you were dead."

"What?" McCormick asked, his eyes wide, turning moist.

"Here, lemme put it on ya," Milt said, not willing to answer any more questions, he still felt like crying. He hung it around McCormick's neck, where it belonged.

"Thanks, Judge, I did not even notice that it was gone," Mark said, blinking the moisture from his eyes. He did not succeed, for a small stray tear spilled from his left eye.

"Here, you're leakin'," Milt said, offering him a handkerchief.

"Knock it off, willya? Get outta here with that snotrag!" McCormick growled testily, sniffling loudly, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

"Listen, Milt and I need to go to the station to get his truck, and your car. I need to get working on those prints right away," Frank intervened, noticing the unease on both Mark and Milt's faces. Hardcastle looked ready to break down.

"I'll be back in while, kiddo," Milt said, looking more tired than ever.

"You should go home and rest, you look like crap. I'll be okay." McCormick said, managing a small smile.

"You think? You look kinda crappy yourself, hotshot," Milt mock growled, "get some sleep, you talk too much, there is much to do tomorrow."

28

Frank and his men went over to Gull's Way to take some prints from the sedan that Mark had 'borrowed'. The prints were taken to the precinct. The call made to the precinct that morning would be traced as well. Milt went with Frank, anxious to find clues to this series of extremely disturbing puzzles. When they were done, the prints were identified.

"What can you tell me about the prints?" Milt asked Frank.

"They belong to Larry Cook and Terrence Bauer. Boy, lemme tell you, these two are scum balls. They were known associates of Johnny Lesnar."

"Johnny Lesnar? That drug running maniac that blew his own brains out when we busted his operation last week?"

"One and the same. Now, Cook and Bauer were in and out of the county cooker a couple of times themselves. They were busted for drug running and second degree murder respectively. Always under the radar. Both of them got out of jail a couple of years ago. It's not exactly clear where they fit into this nightmare. McCormick just mentioned that one of them was killed in the hospital parking lot. After we get his statement, hopefully we'll be all the wiser."

Hardcastle was sitting at the desk, deep in thought.

"Do you remember that note I got in the mail this morning? Did you run the prints on that?" Milt asked.

"Interesting, that. The prints on the note match the ones in the car. They belong to Terrence Bauer," Frank stated.

"So, somebody hired Bauer to deliver that note … somebody that blamed me for his son's death. Bauer was associated with Johnny Lesnar, mmm …" Milt said, rubbing his chin.

"Lesnar had killed himself, because you and McCormick were on to him. So the one who wrote that note … are you thinking what I'm thinking?" "His old man. It had to be!" Milt came to the conclusion.

"Damn right, his old man. None other than the good doctor Alan Lesnar himself."

"Alan Lesnar? You are sure about that?"

"Didn't you read the paper this morning?" Frank asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Never got the chance to. McCormick, bless that kid, stole it again before I could lay my eyes on it. Sat on it when I was looking for it," Milt said, smiling, "I tore it when I pulled it from under his butt, and it ended up in the rubbish bin. Hell, it feels like it happened in another lifetime," he said, shaking his head.

"Imagine that, him yanking Hardcase Hardcastle's chain like that!" Frank laughed out loud.

"Imagine that. Sometimes I feel like leaving him hanging from the basketball pole by the hair!" Hardcastle gave a loud snort. Frank laughed again.

"Anyway, the article was on the second page. This Alan Lesnar, one of the city's most well paid, top surgeons, ranted and raved about how he condemned your actions, accusing you of harassing his son, who was innocent, and suffering of mental illness. Hah! Johnny Lesnar was guilty as sin! Why else did he kill himself when he saw you and McCormick enter his warehouse? The game was up! He couldn't face the music. Yeah, he was a little nuts, but we have all the evidence. That dumb blonde girlfriend of his is singing like a canary. His old man vowed to avenge his death one way or the other by making trouble for all of us. A bad nut, just like his son. Very stupid of him to say that in public," Frank stated.

"He must have been the one that had McCormick kidnapped and drugged, playing that awful trick on me. Damn that crazy fool to hell, I will never forgive him!" Milt rumbled angrily.

"But why such an elaborate trick? What was he planning to do with McCormick?" Frank wondered.

"When the kid gives his statement tomorrow night, we'll know. Then I'm gonna kill that illegitimate son of a cross-eyed camel with my bare hands, if it is the last thing I ever do!"

"You will do no such thing, Milt. I am just as angry as you are about what happened, but we had better be careful. It would be like poking your head into a hornet's nest. I have a really bad feeling about this guy. He seems crazier than a two-headed rattler. Besides, Lesnar might be expecting you, and he will set another elaborate trap for you. McCormick escaped from him, and he'll be looking for the kid. When he finds him, he'll kill him." Frank warned.

"Over my dead body! I'm not going to let that happen again!" Milt shouted, banging on the desk with his fist. Frank looked at Milt with some alarm. He looked haggard and disturbed, his expressive blue eyes had a feverish, haunted and sunken look about them.

"Milt, we will sort this out, I promise. Nothing is gonna happen to McCormick again. But you look terrible, man. I should get you home. You must get some sleep. By next week we will have Lesnar twisting in the wind."

"I feel terrible, Frank. It feels like I might go crazy or something. It was really awful seeing McCormick like that, looking like raw hamburger, lying dead in my arms. It felt like a part of me had died with him. I feel numb, you know," Milt confessed, rubbing his eyes.

"I know. I feel like that, too. I feel like spaghetti right now, all rubbery in the legs. But we are gonna need all of our wits together to bring Lesnar down before he could lay his hands on McCormick again."

"Have you told Claudia that McCormick is okay?"

"Yeah, she cried with relief when I told her, she loves the kid, too. What a day …" Frank said, rubbing the back of his neck. He felt like a survivor that had just crawled from a burning wreck.

29

The following day, McCormick was released from the hospital. He was still feeling a little woozy, but he felt well enough to go home. He was walking to the truck, with Milt following him. At that moment he was a walking marvel. The sun was in his hair, throwing reddish-gold sparks within the brown curls. His posture was straight and strong. Milt still felt pangs of unreality as he looked at the kid, dead the day before, alive again today. Such things only happened in the movies, not in real life. They got into the truck. Milt looked at Mark, hard.

"What's wrong?" McCormick asked, concerned.

"Huh?" Milt asked, not realizing that he was staring.

"You're staring, again. I'm still not a ghost, you know," Mark said with a smile.

"I just can't believe that you're alive, it is too weird," Milt said, shaking his head.

"Weird is good, what you see is what you get."

"You sure you're all right?" Hardcastle asked, noticing the pallor that was still on Mark's face.

"I'm okay, Judge. I'm walking, talking, breathing … I'm as fine as paint, good as new, right as rain, the fastest gun west of the Mississippi," Mark answered with a grin plastered on his face.

"Right as _rain_, huh? I'm glad to see the fastest mouth west of anywhere is working again. That's a very good sign. Generally, ghosts never really talk much, or so I have heard," Hardcastle added with a twinkle in his eye, making Mark snort with laughter.

"But on a more serious note now, I have to tell you that I'm sorry, kiddo."

"About what?" "For getting you into this mess, for almost letting you get killed over this last case. And for being so rude to you yesterday morning before … you know, you only tried to help and I nearly bit your head off," Milt said, feeling embarrassed.

McCormick looked at him, his eyes clear again, with that almost luminous quality.

"It's okay, really. And I knew the risks involved in this last case, I mean, it wasn't even the most difficult or dangerous one we've been on, either. Strictly routine, we did not even work up a sweat," McCormick tried to reassure Milt.

"But if I had known about the terrible things that would happen after that, I never would have gotten involved. I should have let the police handle it, but no, I had to drag you into it, just like always. What am I trying to prove, anyway - I'm such an old fool, you know that?" Hardcastle said with regret in his voice. He sounded so unlike his old self, it was startling. "And I had no right to talk to you that way, yesterday morning. That damned note … it made me lose my temper, and I took it out on you – again!"

McCormick, knowing with certainty, that Milt deeply cared for him, just shook his head. Ol' Hardcase and that getting all mushy, acting all out of character bit, don't star in the same show. But he still seemed a little shell-shocked. Hell, the old donkey had confessed it, that he, Mark McCormick, the luckless ex-con, was loved and wanted. That was the greatest gift of all, the dangers involved with their cases, and the insults of the previous day, were insignificant by comparison.

"Aw, just forget about it, you old coot," McCormick joked, "it doesn't matter any more. And we just did what we've always done – going after the bad guys, cracking another case - it's our job. I'm not even hurt, as you can see. Worse things have happened to me before, you know."

"What's worse than being dead?" Milt could not help asking, now that McCormick the chatterbox was picking up speed. Oh, it was good to have the kid back!

"Prison," Mark quipped, grinning widely.

"No!" Milt answered with mock surprise.

"Yah, the company stinks, the food sucks, the cockroaches crawl into your hair, the rats chew up your underwear and leave holes the size of Texas in your socks, the list is endless," Mark mock growled, pulling a face.

Milt laughed and looked at the kid with wonder in his eyes. Forgiveness came so easily from him, it was just part of his kind and generous nature.

"But anyway, what really matters now, is that the two of us pick up the pieces and put a lid on this case, once and for all. I dunno about you, but I have a score to settle with the bastard who pulled that dirty stunt on us, lemme tell you that." McCormick said, being serious again.

"You're something else, you know that, you crazy goof?" Milt said shaking his head, ruffling McCormick's curls.

"Now you're cookin'!" McCormick added for good measure, imitating Milt's gruff voice.

"Who stole my line?" Milt shot back, grinning, referring to a TV show they used to watch in what felt like ages ago.

"Could we stop at old Burp's Burger Bin before we go home? I'm starving," Mark asked as Milt pulled out of the hospital parking lot. "That tasteless lumpy stuff they fed me all day in there is worse'n prison food! I need to stuff the hole in my face, my tank is running on fumes, here." Milt laughed heartily.

"Some things never change, that's for sure!"

30

Milt and Mark entered the main house at four PM, after Mark had 'stuffed his face' at Burpee's. That put a smile on Milt's face, watching McCormick enjoy food, especially junk food, the way he did. Goodness knows, where he put it all was a mystery. The kid was a sorry sight when he came to live at Gull's Way two years ago. Pale and almost pitifully thin, a strong wind would have blown him away. He looked a hell of a lot better now, for a sheath of muscle had grown over his bones. It was incredible. The dents in the monthly food bill were as big as the holes in McCormick's prison socks – the state of Texas! It must be that racehorse metabolism that Charlie Friedman had mentioned the day before. It had saved the kid's life in any case.

"What the hell happened in here?" McCormick asked when he saw the huge hole in the window of the den.

"It's nothing, really, just a little accident," Milt said, not willing to elaborate.

"Uh-huh, I can see that," McCormick answered with a solemn face, "looks like somebody had chilli beans for lunch. There anything left of the toilet?"

"Very funny, McCormick," Hardcastle rumbled, giving Mark a look that would wilt barbed wire.

"Well?"

"Alright, wise guy, I got angry yesterday, and I broke it. Ya happy now?" Milt growled, feeling embarrassed. Mark just shook his head and sighed.

"I don't blame you, I would probably have done the same thing. I would have torn the place down to the ground, and set fire to anything that's left."

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Frank entered the den.

"Holy crap, Milt, what happened to the window? Did you try to blow the place up?" he said when he saw the broken window.

"Hmmph, he had chilli beans for lunch, and they've turned," Mark chimed in with a mischievous grin.

"Aww, knock it off, you two," Milt said with disgust.

"I probably would have broken a lot more than just the window. You ready to give your statement now, Mark? I must say, you look a lot better than yesterday," Frank said with a smile.

"Yeah, I'm good, and as ready as I'll ever be. There are a lot of holes in this story, and I hope you guys can fill in the blanks," McCormick answered.

The three of them sat down around the coffee table, and Frank opened the file with the paperwork.

"Can you tell me what happened yesterday morning, Mark? Start at the beginning," Frank asked.

"Well, I left here, to get a pool filter at the hardware store. After that, things are really blurry. I don't really remember what happened after I got out of the store. The next thing I remember is waking up in that hospital; somebody had me drugged and kidnapped," Mark said, rubbing his chin.

"Well, what happened, is that Milt and I found you lying in the street, looking like roadkill turned inside out. We thought you were dead, but somebody did a helluva job with fake blood and broken bones." That made McCormick's jaw drop. He shook his head in disbelief.

"It looked that real. Then these orderlies came and took you to the hospital you woke up in. The Z.K. Matthews Hospital in Culver City, is that correct?"

"Yeah, that's the place. I woke up in there, feeling like dope on a rope. Then these crazy doctors walked in there. They were talking about pulling a stunt on the judge, making him think that I had died. It was awful. These guys were going to cut me open and sell my parts, can you believe that? They are organ traffickers! They also went on about two other bozos who wanted to sell me to some damn sheik in the Middle East. Imagine that, it's nuts isn't it?"

"That's revolting!" Milt exclaimed.

"The world is an evil place, you know," Frank continued.

"How did you escape from the hospital?" Hardcastle asked.

"I found sheets in a steel cabinet. Then I tied them together to make a rope, and I threw it down the window. I used it as a kind of decoy, and I hid inside a steel cabinet." That made Hardcastle laugh.

"Sorry, but that's damn good! Watching cartoons all day has its benefits."

"Anyway, then these two madmen discovered that I was no longer in a coma or in the room, and they thought these other two nut jobs had abducted me. When they left, I got out, looking for a car. I saw them again. The doctor – crazier than the devil himself – and his sidekick, had an argument with two guys in the parking lot. The same ones he had mentioned earlier. Then the doctor just shot one of them in cold blood right there. Boy, I was scared to death! He took the dead guy and put him in the trunk of his car. The other one was stuffed into the trunk as well, and they sped off like hot snot."

"Frigging unbelievable! You give the word 'lucky' a whole new meaning," Hardcastle said, shaking his head, looking at Mark with respect.

"That's when you took the gray sedan?" Frank asked again.

"Yes, I think it belonged to the dead guy and his sidekick."

Frank took the newspaper article from his file, and showed McCormick the picture of Alan Lesnar.

"Do you recognise this man?" Frank asked, pointing at the picture.

"That's him alright, Doctor Death," McCormick growled, his eyes darkening. "That's the low life who nearly ruined all our lives, the scum who kills innocent people, selling their organs to rich billionaires waiting for organ transplants. Man, it's so disgusting, I feel like kicking his stinking head in!"

As he was saying that, a plan to bring Alan Lesnar down for good had already started to form within the twists and turns of his imaginative mind. A faraway look crept into his eyes.

"Hey, I know that look, you're not doing anything dumb again, McCormick!" Frank warned.

"Who, me? No way, José, all of this is outta my league, man!" McCormick said, looking innocent and blameless.

"Hmpf, yeah right, whatever," Milt grumbled, looking at McCormick.

He knew that look, too, the narrowing of the eyes, the faraway look. This time he wanted in, for did he not have a score to settle with Murder Inc. himself? But first he would drag McCormick's plan out of him, before Frank could put a lid on it. He had a gut feeling that whatever the kid was plotting under all that hair, was going to be something so darn good it would earn them a couple of purple hearts.

"Listen, you two, I'm telling you again, stay out of this! It has gone far enough. Leave it to us now. We'll nail that mad bastard, come hell or high water," Frank warned. Then he looked at his watch. "Well, let's call it a night, then. You both look ready to pass out." Frank gave each of them a long, hard look, and left.

"Well?" Hardcastle asked McCormick, who still looked miles away.

"Huh? Well, what?"

"Whatchoo gonna do, hotshot? You going to let me in on it?"

"Maybe," Mark hinted, turning to leave for bed, too.

"Maybe what?"

"Judge, I'm tired, you know. Has been a rough coupla days. We'll figure this out tomorrow, okay?" With that Mark left for the gatehouse.

Milt just turned his eyes skywards, shook his head and sighed.

31

McCormick was bustling around in the kitchenette of the gatehouse, early the next morning. A bucket with a lid was sitting on the floor, and McCormick had moved the stove and refrigerator away from the walls. Cockroaches were scuttling around mindlessly, for their hidey-holes had been discovered. Mark kneeled down, and started catching the cockroaches, throwing them inside the bucket.

"Cock-a-roach-es, the cock-a-roach-es, I gotta leetle job for you, ze cock-a-roooch-es, la cucharachaaa-" Mark sang to himself.

"I told the old donkey there were cockroaches here, but no, he never listens to me. Uh-uh, all I hear is how much I am complaining and that I sound like an old geezer with wet pants." The cockroaches were frantically looking for new places to hide under.

"Come to papa, you little buggers. Your files have been pulled," Mark mused to himself as he quickly caught some roaches before they could get away. The kitchenette was infested with them.

Just then, Hardcastle entered the gatehouse. He heard the commotion in the kitchenette and went to investigate. At that moment, Mark had a particularly large cockroach in his hand, and was about to put it into the bucket.

"McCormick! What the hell are you doing?" Milt asked, as he surveyed the crazy scene before him.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Mark asked, as he lifted the lid from the bucket.

"Why are you sitting here, catching bugs? Have you lost your mind?"

"Told you there were cockroaches in my kitchen, and many times, too, but no, I have to share my living space with pests for the rest of my life." The big cockroach jumped out of McCormick's hand at the last moment. "And no, I haven't lost my mind, but I lost the cockroach, now I have to catch another one."

"Looks like those drugs have damaged your brain after all. Have you ever heard of bug spray? It comes in cans, you know," Hardcastle groused, looking disgusted. What on earth was the kid doing? This wasn't the time to fool around, they were supposed to work on a scheme to bring Lesnar to justice!

"Instead of standing there talking nonsense, help me catch the rest of these cockroaches, I've got only two hands, you know." Mark retorted, catching another fat cockroach, tossing it into the bucket.

"McCormick, this is nuts! What is wrong with you?" Milt asked, exasperated.

"It's not nuts, Judge, it's a plan," McCormick explained, looking at Milt, his face serious. His expression did not indicate that anything was off kilter, his eyes were clear.

"There is nothing wrong with me. I have a special plan with them roaches. Remember what I said last night? Well, I've got a great idea how to bring Doctor Schmuckface down."

"With cockroaches? Please! McCormick, for Pete's sake, how the hell are you going to pull that off with _cockroaches_, for crying out loud?" Milt asked with a pained expression on his face. He was getting worried. Was McCormick still hallucinating from the drugs?

"Judge, just listen, for once in your life. I saw this on television once, and it worked like a charm, it was a whopper of an idea. There were these four really tough guys, and their job was to bring bad guys to justice, just like we do. They caught cockroaches, smuggled them into the baddies' locker room, pretended to be pest control employees. They released the roaches onto the floor, and quickly planted bugs into the lockers."

"Bugs?" Milt asked, his expression even more pained.

"Yeah, bugs, you know, listening devices. And then these goofballs fumigated the place, they looked all legit and nobody suspected a thing. The floor was crawling with the roaches they've caught. Then they left and went waiting inside their van, listening to every word the bad guys said in there. Nailed 'em too," McCormick tried to explain, dusting his hands off.

"McCormick, life is not a darn television show, get real! It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard of. You're not thinking straight, here! Forget about what I said last night, you're not-"

"You got any better ideas, Kemosabe?" Mark asked, his brow furrowed.

"A better idea might be to call Charlie and have you looked over," Milt replied, looking worried.

"Judge, I'm fine. And my plan will work. All I need is your help and a coupla calls to get us a pest control van, some uniforms and equipment. And of course, wire the doctor's office at Z.K., and voila, we get 'em – zap! - easy peasy!"

Hardcastle just stared at McCormick, shook his head and sighed heavily.

"And what do you think, genius, is going to happen when this ridiculous plan goes belly-up and blows up in our faces?"

"We're dead. Or, rather, you'll be dead, I'm a ghost, remember?"

"McCormick, that's disgusting! I ougtta tape that mouth of yours shut with duct tape, and put a straitjacket on you, I swear!" Hardcastle growled, waving a fist in the air, and turned to leave. Disapproval was written all over his face.

"That's nice. How about a little help, here?" Mark called after him.

"You're crazy, McCormick! This is never going to work. You're suffering from memory lapse. Looks like you forgot what nearly happened not two days ago! But if it makes you happy, you just go on and play with your little friends, there!" Milt shouted angrily, and stomped away. His nerves were frayed, more like fried; McCormick's plan was not only dangerous, it was insane. He would have none of it. He'd rather have McCormick locked up in a safe place, than let him carry on with this boneheaded scheme. The really crazy part of it all was, McCormick had the nerve to do it alone, no matter what anyone said. Alan Lesnar would never fall for that trick, he would tear Mark apart. If this is what the silly kid had in mind, they should stay right out of this one. Mark just chuckled in that high-pitched little voice, and carried right on with his job. Pretty soon the old goat would see that he was serious about his plan. He just needed to get used to the idea. The trouble is, the plan did sound kind of weird. Weird and Hardcastle just don't appear on the same page.

32

Hardcastle called Frank at the precinct. He was worried sick about McCormick's crazy ideas. He was quite disappointed. That foolish plan sounded like nothing more than a childish prank. Something was wrong with that kid, alright. He was clearly still suffering from the aftereffects of those drugs, and he was going to get himself killed for a second time in just two days, over a bucketful of cockroaches. An hour later, Frank arrived at Gull's way. He found Milt sitting at the porch table, looking worried and very tired.

"Geez, Milt, what's bugging you about McCormick? Is the kid sick? It sounded kinda serious."

"Frank, I think there's something wrong with him. I found him in the gatehouse this morning, on the floor, catching cockroaches." That made Frank snort with laughter.

"Cockroaches, you say? That's ridiculous. Why would he do that?"

"He wants to use them in this cock-eyed, hare-brained plan to bring Lesnar to justice." Milt said, then repeating the details of McCormick's plan, looking more worried by the minute. Frank just looked at him, and then burst out laughing. He was laughing so hard, he had to wipe the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief.

"What's so damn funny, Frank? Come on, this is serious!" Milt said angrily.

"It's the weirdest, most freaking absurd idea I have ever heard of. You're right, that darn kid watches too much television, but he should get a medal for the most original plan to catch a criminal anyone on the force has ever thought of," Frank said, still shaking with laughter.

"Knock it off, Frank! I want you to have him locked up in a safe place. He knows I disapprove of his mad scheme. He's going to do this alone, mark my words, and you know he will. I just won't have it, there's no way in hell I'm letting him go ahead and do it."

"Milt, relax. I'll not have him locked up anywhere. I think it's a brilliant plan, though, dumb as it may sound," Frank said with a twinkle in his eyes.

"What? Are you insane? Have you been listening to anything I said?" Milt was flabbergasted.

"Milt, just listen to me. Yes, the idea sounds crazy. But I think it could be done. There's method behind the madness, so to speak. And it's incredibly funny, too, don't you think? Cockroaches, imagine that! This plan might just make it much easier for us to nail that mad bastard, it could save us a helluva lot of time. Mark doesn't have to do it alone. He doesn't even have to go in there and plant the bugs. One of our men could do it."

Milt just looked at Frank, long and hard. "You're just as crazy as he is, you know. But, you may be right, if we do this your way, McCormick would be out of harm's way. I don't want him near that hospital again, ever! I'll tie him up, toss him into the bathroom and lock the door, if I have to."

"Hah! You have to catch me first, and we all know I'm a hell of an athlete. I'll just run a couple of rings around you, making you dizzy," Mark interrupted, as he walked in on Milt and Frank.

He looked a little dishevelled, his shock of unruly curls was uncombed, his t-shirt was smudged, his cut-off shorts showed legs with dusty knees.

"And here comes Captain Cockroach!" Frank called out, grinning.

"You told him about my beautiful plan?" Mark asked Milt, his cheek dimpling, his smile broadening.

"Frank thinks your crazy idea is a riot. I think you're both stark, staring mad!"

"Wow, finally someone sees the light, here. I take it you're gonna help us out, Frank? That'd be really neat! If we were to pull this off, we'll need all the back-up we could get," Mark said, enthusiasm shining from his eyes.

"Whoa, stop the bus right there, before the wheels come off. Frank and his team are crazy enough to try it, you stay out of it," Milt warned.

"Aw, come on, and spoil my fun? Come hell or high water, I need to do this! I know what I'm doing. I can look after myself, been doing it for years!"

"That would be a dumb move, McCormick; Frank here will take you in and have you locked up until this is all over, I will see to that. It's too dangerous! Do you have a death wish, you stupid kid? What the hell are you thinking? You're mad!" Milt was getting angry, his face was flushed.

"Pfffft! I don't give a fart in a high wind what you say! I personally have score to settle with this guy, just like you. And yes, I'm mad – mad enough to kill him! Somebody has to stop him, and I will. I'm going right into that infernal hospital, plant the bugs and put an end to this madness. What he did to me – to us, and to all the other innocent victims – is horrible! I'm not standing down, here! Nobody's gonna lock me up or try and drag me away in chains. What you'll do is get me the wires, a van, the uniform, a bullet-proof vest, everything – ASAP!" Mark demanded, his face hard now, his eyes getting that flat sheen they always get when he's losing his temper.

"Just listen to yourself, raving like a lunatic! And you call _me_ a donkey? What a joke! Of all the stubbornness I've ever known, you suffer from the worst case of pig-headedness anyone has ever heard of! You got a score to settle with one the meanest killers loose on the streets and all you've got is a bucket full of goddam cockroaches – wow, fan-frigging-_tastic_! Haven't you learnt anything, huh? Alan Lesnar is looking for you, he's gonna rip your guts out and make you wear 'em for earmuffs! Go right ahead, get yourself killed if it makes you happy!" Milt shouted back. This was quickly turning into a full scale argument, a regular Mark and Milt special.

"Guys, guys, please! There's no need to argue. You both sound like escapees from the nuthouse. I'm sure we could solve this before you rearrange each other's faces," Frank interjected, looking a little worried. Both Mark and Milt's nerves were so shot that they might just get into one another.

"What do you suggest then, huh? Got any better ideas?" Milt huffed.

"If we sit down, and discuss this calmly, like grown men, we might reach an agreement, work out a strategy. This will be a difficult stunt to pull off. Alan Lesnar is a very dangerous man. He's got eyes everywhere. One wrong move, and the whole operation goes belly-up," Frank reasoned.

"Try to tell _him_ that!" Hardcastle groused, pointing a thumb in McCormick's direction.

"Milt is right, in a way, Mark. Don't even think about going to Z.K. alone. If Lesnar sees you and recognises you, you're dead, for real this time. He's probably madder than the devil on a heap of hot coals by now. His plan to kill you and get at Milt was derailed. Try to understand my point of view, here. You two are both in great danger. You don't stand a chance. I'll get some men out here to guard the house, anyway."

Mark glared at Frank, hands on his hips. His mouth was a thin line of determination. The flat sheen did not leave his eyes.

"Fine, I won't go alone, you're going to be right there with me. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. Get me all the back-up you could spare, too. But I _am _still going to plant those bugs, do you understand me? Nobody else knows where Lesnar's office is, anyway."

"And I suppose you know where it is, wise guy?" Hardcastle asked, still angry.

"Got a pretty good idea," Mark said, with a scowl on his face.

Frank looked at Milt, shaking his head, grimacing. Too much of Hardcastle's stubbornness had already rubbed off on McCormick. He looked mad enough to boil eggs in his butt. Hardcastle rolled his eyes skywards. He rubbed his face and sighed wearily.

"Heaven help us, everybody's gone nuts," he muttered.

33

Milt and Mark were sitting inside a blue panel van, borrowed from a pest control company in Culver City. They had parked outside the precinct, waiting for Frank and his team to join them. The van was fitted with remote controlled listening devices, speakers, and tape recorders. It looked like something out of a James Bond movie. D.I.E. PESTS was painted onto its sides in big, red and yellow letters. Dead flies and cockroaches were scattered around them. McCormick was dressed as a pest control guy, and wired to the teeth. He was sporting gray overalls with the same logo of death to all pests stitched at the back. On his head he wore a blue DIRT BAGS baseball cap. His long curly hair had been combed straight, and bound into a little pony-tail with a piece of elastic. He looked ridiculous. Horn-rimmed glasses with dark lenses completed the outfit. The cockroaches were safely tucked away inside some match boxes, neatly stowed away inside the pockets of his overalls. The small, button-like listening devices were hidden inside the lining of his baseball cap. He had a canister filled with bug spray on his lap. Milt sat there, looking at him. He was still bummed out with the idea of sending Mark into Z.K. to plant those damned bugs. Disapproval was still written all over his face.

"Dirt Bags? Where the heck did you get that thing? Did you go and pick somebody's trash?" Milt asked, referring to Mark's ridiculous baseball cap.

"Not exactly. I fished it out from under my bed this morning. I think it gives my new uniform a touch of class," Mark said with a smile.

"Hmmpf, you look like a pothead," Milt grumbled, bending over to turn on the radio.

The radio seemed to be busted, and Milt was turning the dial in every direction, trying to find a radio station. Finally some horrific music blared from the speakers. It hurt his ears.

"Aaarrgh!" Milt said, grimacing, "what's this weird accordion racket?"

"Sounds like a band dying of bubonic plague, trying to play Dixieland. They should ask those megastars, the Jazz Masters, to save their butts from getting shot at," McCormick quipped.

"Shut up, McCormick, or you'll be seeing your own stars!" Milt gave Mark a dirty look and switched the radio off.

Mark chuckled, a real McCormick special – a snicker followed by a sniff. "Good to have you back, Hardcase."

Frank and his team that included officers Dave Dawson, John Hanson, Jeff Scott and Mike Procter, the computer expert, left the precinct. Scott and Procter had gotten into the pest control van, firing up all their gizmos inside, ready for action. Frank took the Coyote, just in case something went haywire during the bug 'infestation'; McCormick would need it to escape yet again. Hanson and Dawson were going to follow them in an unmarked car. Four squad cars would trail behind, at a very safe distance. Doctor Death was in for a treat, alright.

"Well, here goes nothing!" Milt said as Mark pulled from the parking lot.

00000

Alan Lesnar was a very troubled man. As he was sitting in his office at Z.K. Matthews, he still couldn't believe that his plan to kill McCormick had failed. This kind of thing just couldn't have happened to him. _Alan Craig Lesnar does not_ _care for failure; no sir, no sirree! _he thought to himself, fuming with rage. If he had been a cartoon character, black smoke would be rising from his ears. No matter how many successes he had in the past, this one blunder was one too many. He made at least two billion dollars a year with his ventures during the past twenty years; the risks were becoming outrageous, but he never failed at one of them. L.A. was _his_ city, he ruled the roost. He even managed to use Z.K. as his headquarters for many years without any trouble. He had eyes and ears everywhere. He was a man with a sense of purpose, always succeeding in running his organ-trafficking schemes without the cops even smelling a rat anywhere. His enormous fortune was safely deposited in banks in South Africa, Libya and Egypt. His meth factories were in full operation all over the globe – trouble free! That was before two crazy buffoons, by the names of Hardcastle and McCormick busted one of his drug-running operations wide open, making him lose his only son with it. _Curse them! _he thought again, and slammed his fist on his desk. Now he had to abandon ship and set up his headquarters somewhere else. The filthy cops would investigate further and fingers could point to him! How could that have happened? He never saw that coming. And now McCormick is gone, somewhere in the Middle-East, and his opportunity to make another twelve million was thwarted. He had made a dumb mistake in trusting those two maggots, Bauer and Cook. He had never misjudged himself with anyone like that before. Was he losing his touch? That was the million dollar question. And there was Hardcastle – a retired old geezer, playing cops and robbers instead of rotting away in an old age home – one of the people responsible for all his problems.

"That gristly old curmudgeon has to be stopped, once and for all, before he causes any more trouble for me. He will do just that, mark my words, he is obstinate enough to try his luck! _Nobody_ screws around with Alan Lesnar like that, and survives to tell the tale!" he said to himself, as a plan to kill Hardcastle began to form in his mind.

34

The fully equipped pest control van was parked outside the back entrance to Z.K. Matthews Hospital. The Coyote was parked under a tree, half a block away and out of sight. Frank was inside, wired, in contact with Hardcastle and McCormick. The squad cars were parked behind the Coyote.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Hardcastle asked a tense-looking McCormick.

"Well, we got this far, didn't we? It's gonna be a piece of pecan pie – if Doctor Death doesn't see me, that is," McCormick answered.

"You're not Superman, you know. How do you know Lesnar would be there in the first place? Do you really think him and that sidekick of his would be there in the office, spilling the beans right on cue? I still think you're nuts."

"That's a chance I'm going to take. Come on, let's get this over and done with." McCormick got out of the van, taking his canister.

Hardcastle was fiddling with his wires, making sure they were working properly. Then he took his gun, and hid it inside his jacket. He put his Yankees baseball cap on, pulling it down, almost hiding his eyes.

"We're going to the side exit, does everyone read me?" McCormick said, talking to Frank and the team inside the van.

"_Loud and clear,"_ and _"You're on, we_ _got your back,"_ was the response into the little listening device in McCormick's ear. He wore a tiny microphone in the breast pocket of his uniform. Hardcastle was equipped with the same devices.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Hardcastle asked, still convinced McCormick wouldn't remember his escape route – he was drugged, after all!

"Yeah, yeah, I think so. Just relax, willya?"

They moved towards the side of the annexe, to the left of the main building. They got to the parking lot where Bauer was murdered three days ago.

"He's here. Look, there's his car," McCormick said, pointing at a silver Mercedes Benz.

"Where's the entrance to this building?" Hardcastle asked.

"It should be right over there, but if I remember correctly, I used the emergency exit to escape," McCormick said, scanning the north side of the annexe. That was met with a snort from Hardcastle. _If he remembers correctly, if he remembers at_ _all,_ he thought with a shake of his head.

Finally they reached a door marked EXIT. It was locked.

"This is the exit I used to escape. If it had been locked on that day, I wouldn't be talking to you right now," McCormick said, taking his leather lock-picking kit from his back pocket. His hands were still shaky, and he dropped the little tool he wanted to use.

"Hurry it up, McCormick!" Hardcastle urged, looking around rather nervously. At last the lock gave it up, and they entered the building.

"This way," McCormick whispered, pointing at the flight of stairs where he nearly took a tumble three days ago. His skin was crawling with goosebumps, as he remembered narrow escape he had. They came to a halt at the third floor. The door leading to the corridor was closed, but unlocked.

"You wait here, behind this door. If anyone sees you, the game is up," McCormick whispered.

"Don't do anything stupid, ya hear!" Hardcastle hissed. He hated the idea of letting McCormick go into that corridor, it was like walking into a seething nest of puff adders. Chances were good that someone would see him.

McCormick took the match boxes with the cockroaches from his pockets. As he walked down the corridor, he dropped a few cockroaches onto the floor with every second step he took. They scurried around, trying to find places to hide.

"Heh, heh," McCormick laughed nervously, "I must be crazy doing this!"

He passed several unmarked doors, until he reached one with a plaque that read: A. LESNAR M.B. ChB Hon (NY).

"Aha! Bingo, I'm-"

The door suddenly opened, and Alan Lesnar stood there; seeing someone dressed in a ridiculous outfit loitering around, where he's not supposed to be.

"What the hell? Who the hell are you?" he barked at McCormick.

McCormick was momentarily frozen in shock; seeing his enemy standing before him so suddenly, wasn't what he had expected. His heart skipped a beat, and his stomach turned. He had to swallow hard to keep his breakfast down.

"Well?" Lesnar barked again, reaching for his gun inside his jacket.

"Uhm, petht control, thir," McCormick said in a frightened voice. Being the resourceful guy he was, he suddenly thought it best to throw in a thick lisp, hoping against hope that he would pass for some stupid fool who had gotten a little lost.

"What?" Lesnar growled, black eyes blazing.

"Petht control. I got a call from thith hothpital that you guyth had cockroacheth and bugth here." That ridiculous lisp brought a smile to the faces of those whom were listening in over the wires.

"How the hell did you get here, you idiot? This is a restricted area!"

"Uh, well, thith ith the thecond floor ithn't it?" "No, you brainless blimp! This is the third floor. Can't you count? Cockroaches, indeed!"

"Look there. I thee them, there are roacheth up here, too," McCormick lisped, and pointed at a fat cockroach trying to squeeze itself under a door. With that, he walked towards it, aiming the canister at it.

_Psssch, psssch._ "Hukkh, hukkh, hukkh!" he coughed, for he inhaled some of the smelly bug spray. Lesnar grabbed him roughly by the arm and spun him around.

"Now read my lips, retard, put an egg in your shoe and beat it!" he spat out, and shoved McCormick roughly in the direction of the nurses' station.

McCormick nearly spilled himself and all his goodies onto the floor. He held onto his cap as he struggled to stay on his feet. The dark glasses were threatening to slip from his face. Lesnar grabbed him by the arm again, and marched him towards the armed security guard standing at the entrance, next to the nurses' station. McCormick was about to lose hope of planting the bugs inside Lesnar's office, when another idea hit him. He doubled over, coughing loudly again. At that moment he quickly took one of the little bugs from inside his baseball cap. Lesnar tried to pull him up, and he grabbed onto his enemy's jacket. He dropped the bug into the pocket of Lesnar's jacket.

"Get up!" Lesnar growled, and pulled McCormick roughly up, nearly spilling him onto the floor again.

Hardcastle listened to the commotion, and his heart was in his throat. He took his gun from his jacket, ready to shoot Lesnar if he had to.

"Security, take out this trash!" Lesnar shouted at the security guard.

The two nurses, sitting there at their counter, stopped their chattering when they saw the spectacle in the pest control uniform being manhandled past them.

"_McCormick, get out of there!"_ Hardcastle warned over the microphone. _"Abort the mission, kid,_ _get out now!"_ Frank added, worried.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going, I'm gone," he said to the security guard, holding his hands and the canister in the air. "Don't thoot! I wath only doin' mah job."

"Shut up, get lost!" Lesnar shouted, as the security guard shoved McCormick through the door. The guard marched him down another corridor, longer and busier than the one they just left. He was pushed into an elevator that took them to the ground floor.

"_McCormick, what's happening? Where_ _are you?"_ Hardcastle asked over his microphone.

"Where you be a-takin' me, mithter?" McCormick asked the guard.

"To the front entrance. Dunno what the heck you're doing here in the first place. You have no business here!" The guard growled in a bad-tempered way.

"The front entrance?" McCormick asked, trying his best to appear totally clueless.

"Which hovel did you crawl from? How could any pest control company employ a bonehead with a single digit IQ like you?"

The elevator doors slid open, and the guard took McCormick to the hospital's front entrance, past the lobby, and shoved him through the sliding doors.

"Never show your idiot mug here again!" the guard shouted and turned to leave.

"Phew, that was too close for comfort!" McCormick said, knowing that Hardcastle had heard him mention the front entrance.

"_You and your damn fool ideas! You could've been killed this time. Get your butt outta_ _there! I'll bring the van_ _and pick you up,"_ Hardcastle growled.

"_You blew it, McCormick! Have you ever heard of the word 'careful'? Now we're back to square one,"_ Frank added for good measure.

"No, not exactly. I may not have planted the bugs in Lesnar's office; I did better than that – I managed to slip one into his pocket. It's not over yet!" McCormick said, waiting outside the building for Hardcastle to pick him up.

"_Wonders never cease to happen,"_Hardcastle grumbled.

"Put that into your pipe and smoke it, Kemosabe!" McCormick quipped, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand.

35

"You give the words 'be careful' a whole new meaning now, don't you?" Frank asked Mark as they regrouped.

"Well, I try. All we have to do now, is listen – maybe Lesnar drops something we could nail him with, while the bug in his pocket remains undiscovered," Mark said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Or when your 'cockroacheth' pick something up in there and send it to us using morse code!" Hardcastle said, imitating Mark's ridiculous lisp and rolling his eyes.

They went to the back of the van, hoping that Scott and Proctor were getting a signal.

"Got anything, Scottie?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, we're picking up some background noise, footsteps and voices. Looks like we're still in business after all."

"See, what did I tell ya, huh? I love it when a _pla-a-an_ comes together," Mark said, as he took off his cap, retrieving the other bugs from its lining.

"Where the heck did you pick _that _up?" Frank asked with a frown.

"He's got square-eyetis. You get it from watching too much TV, it affects the brain and lowers the IQ," Milt gave the answer to that little riddle.

00000

Alan Lesnar went back into his office, and James Masters followed him.

"This is what we're gonna do, Masters," Lesnar said, leaning against his desk, "we're gonna take Hardcastle out of the equation."

"What good is that going to do? We lost McCormick, and the old fool thinks he's dead."

"He may be thinking that, but it's beside the point. Because of him and his pet ex-con, the cops may trace my son's failed meth operation to me! They have caused me an unimaginable amount of trouble! I have a bad feeling about this. That old buzzard is going to put two and two together, and figure out that I'm behind McCormick's 'death' and his disappearance. There is no body lying in the mortuary, now is there? We have an enormous problem thanks to those idiots Bauer and Cook – they've gone and ruined everything! I wish I could kill them a thousand times over!"

"Yeah, I'll say. What are we going to do? Luckily nobody'll be able to pin Bauer and Cook's deaths on us. If only those two morons knew how many problems they've caused us as well. You should've cut their fingers and toes off while they were watching! Why did you hire them in the first place? That was the biggest mistake you've made, man."

"They seemed trustworthy at the time; I had all their records, and they took care of my son, helping him running our business for years. Yeah, it was time for me to take them out - they knew too much, anyway. However, I put all the blame on Hardcastle and that daffy sidekick of his. If they hadn't interfered the way they did, none of this would have happened!" Lesnar shouted, banging his desk with his fist again.

"What do you plan to do, once we paid Hardcastle a little visit?" Masters asked."

"We'll send them a greeting-card from sunny South Africa! It's time for us to blow this joint and set up our new headquarters there."

"South Africa is the most dangerous place in the world. Couldn't we rather go to Egypt? Our meth factories over there need some attention, after all," Masters complained, looking worried.

"Nope, South Africa it is. We will blend right in there, for aren't we dangerous ourselves? But then again, you've always been lacking in the guts department. We could safely leave our Mexican project to that Greek Gino Rastopopulos. He may be a greaseball, but he's a hell of a surgeon. I've just arranged with him to take over here. And think, nobody will find us in Crime Capital, now would they? That country is completely crime-infested - we won't even be a blip on the radar. People like us get VIP treatment down there, we'll be treated like royalty. The possibilities there are endless, let me assure you. I've contacted Hans Rautenbach in Johannesburg, he's waiting for us. Get your bullet-proof vest and start packing."

"You're crazy to want to deal with that slimeball, he's a back-stabber – the worst kind!" Masters stated, still not willing to leave everything just like that to go to dark Africa.

"As far as that goes, my dear friend, he could get a few tips from me. He'd never get the chance to try that kind of thing with me, let me assure you. He knows it, too. He may be rich and influential, but he's still a junkie."

"So when do we kill Hardcastle and close up shop?"

"No better time than the present," Lesnar said, getting his car keys.

00000

Inside the van, everyone heard Lesnar's words clearly. Some of what Masters said, was a little fuzzy, for the bug was inside Lesnar's pocket. But they had said enough; their suites in the 'college of knowledge' were booked.

"Pretty dark stuff," Frank commented drily.

"What are we going to do?" Mark asked Milt, his eyes big.

"Get into that red firecracker of yours and go home. We'll all burn some rubber and follow you to set up an ambush for them there. They mustn't get the smallest chance to get away. If they give us the slip and leave for South Africa, our hands would be cut off at the waist. They'll completely disappear down there!" Milt said, having thought the matter over. As Lesnar said, there's no time like the present, and they had very little of it.

"That's right Milt, that's the best plan of action right now. We've got enough on those two to let them rot in jail for a couple of centuries. Let's get outta here," Frank agreed, getting ready to leave.

"Thanks, you guys. You did a great job. We got 'em!" Mark said to Scott and Proctor.

"Anything for our favourite 'petht control' guy!" Proctor said with a smile.

36

"How are we gonna do Hardcase?" Masters asked Lesnar.

"We'll surprise him at his home, and tie him to a chair. Then, we'll kill him slowly, let him suffer excruciating pain," was the answer to that particular question.

"Why don't we just shoot the old bastard? Get it over and done with, and blow this joint."

"No, that would be much too easy. He is to suffer long and hard for the loss of my son, and for the mountain of trouble – not to mention the loss millions of dollars – he'd caused me. No, my friend, he's going to pay for all of his sins in instalments," Lesnar said in that icy voice, taking his set of scalpels, handing them to Masters, who put it inside his pocket.

"It does have kind of a nice ring to it, though," Masters replied.

"It's gonna be a lot of fun, let me assure you. When we're done, we'll dump what's left of the body with the others, let our clean-up guys close the hole up and blow all the 'evidence' sky high. Then, we'll make a beeline for South Africa."

00000

The pest control van and the squad cars were parked outside the main house at Gull's Way. Inside the van there was a stunned silence. Frank, Mark and Milt were listening to every word.

"Jeepers, that is gruesome! Any idea what happens next?" McCormick asked, his face paper white.

"We've gotta act fast, they're coming," Frank said, nervously rubbing the back of his head.

"That's easy, we set up a decent trap for them; a trap so water-tight that not even a twister, an earthquake or an alien invasion would be able to keep them from going to jail," Milt said after a moment of thought.

"How?" Scott asked as he tweaked a button on the control panel.

"McCormick, go get the video camera in the closet, and set it up in the den where nobody could see it," Milt ordered, looking grim and determined.

"Oh no, you're not gonna do what I think you'll be doing?" Mark said in a shocked voice, shaking his head slowly.

"That's exactly what I'm gonna do. Now quit complainin' and do as I say. Get outta here!" Milt barked, shooing McCormick out of the van.

"Now here's the plan of action. Frank, get the others and listen up," Milt ordered in his gruff voice.

37

"We're in business. The old battle-axe is here," Lesnar said as he parked his car behind the GMC truck, next to the fountain at Gull's Way. There was no sign of anybody else, their vehicles were parked safely from sight.

"So far, so good, doc. He's not going to know what hit him," Masters answered with a grin on his face. They tried the front door of the main house, and found it unlocked. It seemed almost too easy.

"Guess who forgot to lock the front door," Masters whispered.

"That sort of thing happens when foolish geriatrics get careless and start forgetting things, eh," was the reply.

They entered the house quietly, and proceeded towards the den. They didn't hear the door close behind them with a quiet snick; they were too eager to find their quarry. Said quarry was standing in front of the fireplace, with a book in his hand.

"Turn around slowly, chump," Lesnar said in his icy voice, his gun trained on Hardcastle.

"Who the hell are you?" Hardcastle asked as he turned and faced his enemies.

"We're your worst nightmare, paying you one last visit, because your name is written on the bucket list," Masters answered, his gun also pointing at Hardcastle.

"What do you want from me?" Hardcastle asked, sounding very tired and old.

"You'll know soon enough," Lesnar said as he took a roll of duct tape from his pocket. "Masters, get me a hard chair. Then we'll make the old deadbeat nice and comfy."

"What are you gonna do?" Hardcastle asked, pretending to appear clueless.

"Well, you and that bozo with his head looking like a malfunction in a hair factory were responsible for the death of my only child, as well as causing me enough trouble to last me a lifetime! You're going to foot the bill with your life," Lesnar answered as Masters brought a chair and put it in front of Hardcastle.

"Sit down, you old goat!" Masters ordered, forcing Hardcastle to sit on the chair.

"Why? Haven't you cause me enough pain already? What about McCormick? You're the ones who had him killed, aren't you? He was all I had left! What about that, huh?" Hardcastle asked, his voice trembling with emotion.

"He was a loser, a thief, and a miserable ex-con - a low-life, in other words. Why would you care about trash like him? We did the world a big favour by getting rid of him. And now we'll be doing ourselves - and everybody else who hates your guts - a favour by cutting you to shreds!" Lesnar growled, as Masters taped Hardcastle's wrists to the arms of the chair.

"Don't you dare say those things about McCormick! He was my-"

"Shut up!" Lesnar shouted, slapping Hardcastle across the face, making his head rock backwards. Masters took the set of scalpels from his pocket, handing the largest, meanest-looking one to Lesnar.

"You should have retired, you old baboon; instead of masquerading as some kind of bent cop, a street hawk or whatever you vigilantes like to call yourselves these days," Lesnar said with a sneer, holding the scalpel in front of him, pointing it towards Hardcastle's face. It looked like a glorified dagger.

"And let scumbags like you roam the streets? I'd rather die first!" Hardcastle shouted.

"Which is exactly what you're going to do. First, I'll be cutting your eyes out; for we'll be the last scumbags you'll ever see. Then, I'll cut the rest of you in neat little pieces – _slowly._ You and McCormick made the biggest mistakes of your miserable misspent lives by letting my son kill himself. May you both burn in hell!" Lesnar growled, bringing the scalpel closer, ready to gouge Hardcastle's eyes out.

"Cut!" McCormick shouted as he stepped out from behind Hardcastle's desk, with the video camera in his hands. "It's a wrap! Smile, King Cockroach; you're on candid camera, and you're one very, very busted old baboon!"

Frank appeared from behind Lesnar and Masters. "Drop 'em, now!" he shouted, his gun trained on the two villains.

Masters turned around, flabbergasted, looking down the barrel of Frank's gun. Lesnar stared at McCormick, still dressed in his pest control uniform, minus the dark glasses, the pony tail and the baseball cap. His eyes were gleaming like cold, luminous blue steel, striking fear in Lesnar's heart. Utter confusion was written all over the murderous doctor's features.

"McCormick? H-how in the name of … you … you're supposed to be in the Middle East!" he stammered, scared for the first time in his life. This was extremely impossible!

"I said drop the guns! Drop the scalpel, it's your last warning!" Frank said, moving closer.

Officers Dawson and Hanson appeared from behind the long leather sofa, their guns pointing at Lesnar and Masters.

"You're under arrest! Drop your weapons!" Hanson shouted.

Masters, flabbergasted and scared out of his mind, dropped his gun with a trembling hand. He couldn't believe his eyes – McCormick had indeed escaped, against all odds. There he was, alive and apparently unaffected by Lesnar's drugs! What kind of a superhuman was he? It was unbelievable how quickly things have gone south for him and Lesnar. Nothing like that had ever happened to them before; the trap they've fallen into had slammed shut behind them, there was no way out.

Lesnar, only momentarily thrown, pointed his gun at McCormick, and shot him in the chest, twice. McCormick was flung backwards by the impacts, and went flying over Hardcastle's desk. He landed behind it in a crumpled heap. The video camera rolled away from his outstretched hand.

"_Nooooo!"_Hardcastle cried out, straining against his bonds.

Frank shot Lesnar in the back, and he dropped like a stone. The scalpel and the gun were kicked away from him.

"Dawson, call an ambulance, quick!" Frank shouted, hurrying towards McCormick.

"You, cut Hardcastle loose, now!" Hanson ordered Masters, whose face was as white as a sheet.

As soon as Hardcastle was freed from his bonds, he joined Frank, kneeling next to McCormick. He gently took McCormick's face in his hands.

"McCormick, please, talk to me!"

"Some things never change, you know," McCormick muttered as his eyes fluttered open. "Getting gunned down still makes me hungry."

"How …?"

It was Frank's turn to be completely stunned by the turn of events. Hardcastle touched the bullet-holes on McCormick's uniform, and then he opened it. Underneath was the bullet-proof vest the kid had asked for. Relief flooded him like a tidal wave. The bullets would have pulverised McCormick's heart, killing him instantly. His chest would hurt like a mad bastard afterwards from the force of the impacts, but he'll live.

"That's how. Motor-mouth here isn't quite as dumb as he looks, you know. Had me going for a few seconds there, though – I've forgotten that he'd put the damn thing on," Milt said, helping McCormick sit up.

"Oww," McCormick groaned, touching his chest.

"Don't ever do that again; you'll give me a heart attack, you reckless knucklehead!" Frank shouted, swatting McCormick at the back of his head.

"Oww! Sheesh, why don'tcha just go ahead and knock my head right off?" McCormick groaned again, rubbing the back of his head. "Lemme up, willya?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Hardcastle pulled him to his feet, steadying him. He started trembling uncontrollably.

"Here, here, lemme sit you down, you're gonna fall on your face. How're you feeling?" Hardcastle asked, worried. He led McCormick to the leather ottoman, gently letting him down.

"I'll be okay, just feeling a little woozy, tha's all," McCormick muttered, trying very hard not to pass out.

Getting shot, even with a bullet-proof vest on, was a jolt to his system that was still trying to cope with the physical and emotional trauma of his harrowing experience a few days ago. The residual effects of the drugs he was injected with during the kidnapping, still had a hold on him; he would tremble and get dizzy spells for days to come.

Lesnar was still alive, but badly wounded; the bullet had shattered some vertebrae in his spine, and would leave him paralyzed from the waist down. When the ambulance arrived, he was taken away to L.A. General, accompanied by officers Dawson and Hanson. Masters was cuffed, and Frank stuffed him roughly into one of the squad cars. It was 'game over' for him and for Lesnar; messing with Hardcastle and McCormick had proved to be the biggest mistake they've made in their long career as crime lords.

00000

Hardcastle helped McCormick taking the bullet-proof vest off. The impacts from the slugs had left ugly black bruises on McCormick's breastbone above and directly over his heart.

"You sure you're gonna be alright?" Hardcastle asked as he looked at the ugly bruises on the kid's rather skinny chest. It gave him the chills.

"Yeah, I think I'll live. Ya got a couple of aspirin?" McCormick asked, as he rubbed his chest. His whole ribcage ached. "I feel like I've been hit by a bus, or a freight train."

"You with your crazy stunts! What if Lesnar had aimed for your head, huh? You may have too much hair, but not even _that _is bullet-proof! Sometimes I wonder if you're really as brave as you look, or just plain stupid. I'm confused," Hardcastle grumbled, leaving to get some aspirin from the medicine cabinet in the kitchen.

"Is that some kind of an upside-down compliment, or what?"

"You're hopeless. What am I gonna do with you?" Milt asked, returning with the pills in his hand. He shook his head with a sigh.

"Gimme those pills, put me in bed and get me a pizza," was the answer to that particular question.

38

McCormick was sitting on the pool chair, staring at the dappled sunlight reflected onto the surface of the swimming-pool water. He was lost in thought, seriously considering a life-changing career move after his recent nightmare experience. There were just too many wrongs in the world, too much injustice and too many innocent people who get hurt or die unnecessarily. There was simply too much needless suffering and too few helping hands around. And he, Mark McCormick the ex-con, felt the urge burn strong within him to do something about it. If he could only reach out a helping hand to somebody who needed it desperately, in a world that is more dangerous than a snake-infested jungle. It would already make a difference – it may be only a small one, but it would be a step in the right direction. Each success would be like a drop of water in a bucket; but if enough drops fill the bucket over time, it would eventually overflow.

"Fill enough buckets, and all the filth on the floor of this town could be washed away," he muttered to himself.

Hardcastle had been watching him for a while, as he was sitting on the pool chair, shirtless, dressed only in his old cut-off shorts. He was supposed to clean the pool, but apparently he was daydreaming again. He seemed to be in a strange mood during the past three days. His eyes had a faraway look in them, and he was far too quiet. McCormick and quiet just did not play in the same ballgame. He would find out what was bugging McCormick, come hell or high water. It was time for him to have a serious talk with the kid.

"Hey, there's a lizard in the pool!" Hardcastle said after he moved quietly towards McCormick, who still sat there, staring at the water. It made him jump.

"Yaah! Put me on the heart-attack list now, why don'tcha?" McCormick growled, putting a hand on his chest. The dark bruises there were fading, but still stood out like accusations.

"What's that lizard doing in the pool, McCormick?" Hardcastle went on, pointing at the drowning lizard that had accidentally fallen into the pool.

"It appears to be doing the breast-stroke," McCormick answered sarcastically, as he kneeled down at the edge of the pool. He scooped the little brown lizard out with his hand. It wriggled as it tried to get away.

"Yuck. Here, use the net," Hardcastle said as he held out the pool net.

"It's just a lizard, Judge, not an alligator," McCormick said as he released the wet lizard on the grass. It scurried away.

"Sit down, kid. We need to talk," Milt said as he pulled another pool chair closer to the one McCormick had been sitting on.

"What about?" McCormick asked with reluctance in his voice. He was in no mood for talking.

"Something's been bugging you lately, and I wanna know what it is."

"It's no big deal, Judge, really. I'm just a little tired, that's all," McCormick replied, indeed sounding a little listless.

"Spit it out, kid. Don't keep it in. You've gone through a hell of a thing a week ago, and it shows."

"You've been through hell too, you know. I'm fine, really. There's not much to talk about right now."

"Oh no, there is! You know now that you mean something to me, you obviously heard me say that in the gatehouse. We're friends – best friends even. You could tell me anything."

That got McCormick's attention. "Hey, what did you put into your coffee this morning?"

"Just quit that, McCormick! I'm serious. I'm not saying these things a lot, so just shut up and listen, for once in your life! I'm asking you for the last time – what's bugging you?"

"Nothing much is bugging me, Judge. It's just … well … that the events of the past week got me thinking about something a lot."

"What is that?" "The work we do, Judge, is it really enough? So many violent crimes are being committed, every second of the day; even as we speak. So many innocent people become victims of these heinous crimes every day, and many of them would never even be reported! The petty crimes get the most attention! What about all the serious cases that get thrown out of court because of technicalities, or missing witnesses? Everything is such a mess, it makes me sick; especially the organ trafficking business. It disgusts me to my core," Mark said, and there was a note of dismay in his voice.

"This is the dark side of the sad state the world is in, kiddo. Are you getting second thoughts about our arrangement? Do you feel that you may want to quit? I can honestly say that, after all that's happened, I wouldn't blame you at all if you no longer-"

"No, no! That's not it, Judge. That's just the thing – I don't want to quit, ever! I want to try and do more about the situation we're all in! But I just can't see how. It all feels so hopeless; as if my hands were chained behind my back, and my mouth taped shut. I just can't sit around like this and be a silent onlooker anymore," McCormick said, sighing heavily.

"Now you know how I've been feeling for the past forty years! There's never enough time and never enough helping hands, and the situation just gets worse with each passing year. It's terribly frustrating! And when a case gets thrown out of court because of ridiculous technicalities, it just makes my blood boil with anger. But listen to this; you seemed to have forgotten about all the cases that the two of us cracked open during the past two years. You and I did it mostly on our own! Now, those were some serious stunts that not just anybody could pull off. We're the talk of the town right now, you know! We've busted one of the biggest kingpins in the States. Now _that_ should count for something. And do you know what the best part of it all is? _You_ did it with a bucketful of cockroaches of all things!" Hardcastle said, looking McCormick straight in the eye.

"You're the one who told me the cockroach idea was far too crazy and dumb to even be considered, and you nearly talked me out of it, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I did too; but it worked, didn't it? I was just worried about you, that's all. You've always been terribly reckless. The sillier and dumber your ideas may sound, the better they seem to work. That's just the brilliant part of it. All that matters now, is that Lesnar would grow old and die in jail – thanks to you."

"That's just the proverbial tip of the iceberg, Judge! There are so many more guys like him roaming the streets, wreaking havoc, and we don't even know about them," McCormick said, still unconvinced.

"Haven't you been listening to anything I've said? We are only _two_people," Hardcastle said, holding up two fingers, "but we busted a huge, world-wide drug-ring open; not to mention the revolting organ-trafficking business. And while this had been going on for years, the entire combined police force in the States was oblivious to it all! Just imagine how many other cases like that we – including Frank and his team - would be able to crack in the future. McCormick, now listen, open you ears; for I'm never going to say this again! You are the one person with the single most finely tuned forensic ability – not to mention the creativity and originality of your ideas! - I've ever known or worked with. It's a talent! You don't even have to try hard; answers to many impossible issues in our cases just popped into your head, and usually they hit the spot! You're of a rare breed, McCormick, you could do anything if you'd just put your mind to it. Don't you ever forget that! Quit being so negative," Hardcastle said with surprising earnestness.

For the first time McCormick was at a loss for words. He just looked at Hardcastle, trying to get his head around what he'd just heard. He'd just been paid the most heart-warming compliment anyone had ever given him in his life; and that came from old Hardcase of all people! Then something crept into his eyes that looked suspiciously like love. It was noticed and greatly appreciated.

"Do you really mean that?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"I never say anything I don't mean, McCormick!"

McCormick fell silent for a full minute after that. In that space of time, the decision to attend law school had been made – irrevocably. The how and the when of it all would be comparatively minor details he would pay attention to, later. He lifted his face and looked Hardcastle in the eye.

"Thanks Judge. It really means a lot to me," he said, and the shadows of doubt had left his eyes.

"Ya feeling better now?" "You bet!" McCormick said, a smile was slowly spreading over his features.

"There ya go! Let's grab some Hunga Busta burgers at Burger Bin, what do you say?"

"Now you're talking!" McCormick said with a five-star grin.

39

McCormick had just finished munching two Hunga Busta burgers when the doorbell rang.

"McCormick, get the door," Hardcastle said, taking the plates to the kitchen.

"Yeah, yeah," McCormick grumbled, not really in the mood for visitors. He felt tired, and wanted to take a nap.

"What's with the long face?" Frank asked as McCormick opened the door.

"Hey, Frank, what's up?" Mark asked, his spirits lifting a little. He would always have time for Frank, tired or not.

"Serious stuff, kid. Go get Milt. You guys need to sit down."

"Uh-oh. That's not exactly what I wanted to hear," McCormick said, following Frank to the den.

"What would that be?" Milt asked as he returned, "Oh, hi there, Frank, nice to see you. You got some news for us about Lesnar's case?"

"Yeah, I do. As I told Mark here, you guys had better sit down. The news I've brought isn't good – no, not good at all," Frank said with a solemn face.

"Well, spill the beans, let's face the music, then," Mark said, sitting down on the leather sofa.

"You and Milt have just opened a particularly nasty, rotten can of worms when you took on Alan Lesnar. In fact, this is one of the worst cases I've ever worked on."

"Amen to that. But what more can you tell us that we don't already know?" Milt asked.

"A lot, actually; I'm going to tell you the abridged version. Although Alan Lesnar is in the hospital, and may never walk again. His lips are sealed. He refuses to co-operate with any of us, and he's gonna make a hell of a lot of trouble for us. On the other hand, we've managed to drag a lot of information out of his buddy, Masters. It is all true; the man is lacking in the guts department. He's spilled a lot of the filthy, putrid worms from this bad can. It stinks to high heaven, let me tell you."

"How bad is it then, huh?" Mark asked, not sure he wanted to hear more.

"Really, really bad – and bad for you and Milt. You guys need to disappear for a while."

"Whaaat?" Mark asked, his eyes big.

"Why?" Milt asked with a frown.

"Alan Lesnar had been orchestrating enormously devious criminal activities. He'd have his cronies import Mexican citizens illegally, promising them jobs in the States. Then he'd have them undergo medical examinations, telling them that it is procedure before they take up the promised jobs – working in meth factories among many other places. The healthiest ones get drugged and then cut open, their organs taken out and sold to high paying clients. The bodies – this is the really bad part – get thrown into mass graves in the desert. As soon as the holes have been filled, Lesnar's galoots blow the bodies to bits with dynamite, leaving no evidence for anyone to find. The rest of Lesnar's Mexican employees who don't qualify for 'organ donation' would be blackmailed into secrecy – hushedy-hush – because they're illegal immigrants, working in drug manufacturing factories. Some local patients unfortunate enough to end up at that slaughterhouse, Z.K. Matthews for minor operations, also got tested. If they had something Lesnar could use and sell, they punched out their final time-clocks on the operating table. Their families got told that something went wrong during the operation; something like a sudden drop in blood-pressure or sudden heart failure – the list is endless."

"Holy crap, Frank! That is shocking news, indeed!" Milt said, sounding genuinely upset.

McCormick just sat there, his face had turned paper white. His hands started shaking. That is what nearly happened to him, too.

"There's more. Apart from the organ-trafficking business, Lesnar had been running as many as twenty drug manufacturing factories all over the world. You could imagine how many employees he had, working for him in those factories. Now, because of you two, those factories will soon be discovered, and closed down. All those people would be out of work, arrested and tried. Lesnar's high-paying clients would no longer get their goods - the drugs and the organs - and there would be investigations. You guys are in a heap of trouble with these people, they want your heads on a platter! The Federal Bureau Against Drug Trafficking, the Red Scorpions, as well as the International Policing unit, will have their hands full with this ants' nest that the two of you have opened up. In short; you need to disappear and go to a safe place after Lesnar's trial, for your lives are in great danger!"

"Oh hell, I don't believe this!" McCormick said, running his shaking hands through his curls. He was stunned by this turn of events.

"What about that hospital, Z.K. Matthews? How could all of Lesnar's activities have been going on under everybody's noses without anyone smelling a rat? It's not a private clinic, is it?" Milt asked, also thrown by all the bad news.

"Nope, it's not. Lesnar even had a couple of fingers in the pie belonging to the local Health Department! He'd been supplying drugs to some of the departmental officials. The hospital is going to be closed down until all the investigations are over. All the hospital's employees would be out of work and questioned as part of those investigations. Some of them would be arrested as accessories to the murder of patients there. This is so big, you both are in way over your heads!"

"Looks like you're gonna have to catch something bigger than cockroaches to get us out of this mess, kiddo!" Hardcastle said, looking at McCormick with a solemn face.

"Ho, ho! How about a bucketful of lizards, the ones that usually try to take swimming lessons in the pool," McCormick answered drily.

"Seriously, Frank, Lesnar and Masters won't be granted bail, would they?" Milt asked.

"No, they don't stand much of a chance to get it. But while they await trial, I'm going to order police protection for you, before someone dumps you in a hole and blow you sky-high!" Frank answered.

40

After a comparatively quiet dinner, Hardcastle and McCormick were seated in the den, watching the news on TV. Each were busy with their own thoughts, trying to absorb all the bad news they had received earlier that day.

"So, where do we 'disappear' to, after the trial?" McCormick broke the silence.

"Well, I've been thinking about a nice, quiet spot in Oregon, where nobody will be looking for us. I'll give an old friend of mine, Buzz Bird, a call. He'll show us around."

"Oregon? Man, what the heck does one go and do there? It's boring. Even the birds fly upside down, because there's nothing to do!" McCormick whined.

"Ya always have to moan and bitch, dontcha? There's plenty to do in Oregon. Where do you want to go anyway, wiseguy?"

"Even South Africa sounds more exciting than Oregon. At least I hear that there are some pretty girls."

"Hmmpf! You wanna go into the lion's den like ol' Daniel? Only this time the lions down there will eat you up, hair and all. You won't last a week. The sun will ruin your tender skin, bleach your hair and dry you out like a prune anyway!" Hardcastle grumbled with a sneer on his face.

"Hah, so you reckon it would be safer to buzz off with mister Bird what's his face to Oregon, which is practically on our doorstep? It would take Lesnar's bad guys exactly half a day to find us there! All of this sucks, man," McCormick complained again.

"I know what's best for us, and that's the way it is. Leave this to me, okay? Nobody's gonna be looking for us there, I can promise you! Just quit whining like a kid with a wet diaper. Let's watch the eight o'clock movie. I even made us some popcorn."

"Alright, alright, whatever you say. I'm too tired to argue about this anyway," McCormick said, getting up with a sigh. He went to the kitchen to fetch the popcorn.

"Hurry up, McCormick, the movie's starting," Hardcastle called.

"What's showing tonight?" McCormick asked, leaving the kitchen with two huge bowls filled with savory popcorn.

"It's Superman. You're gonna love it." Hardcastle said, taking the remote control.

"Aww, I'd rather see the one about the guy who could make a bomb with a rock and a piece of wire," McCormick said, stuffing his mouth full of popcorn.

"Shut up and watch the movie," Hardcastle said, taking a handful of popcorn.

"Hey, this popcorn is pretty hot! What did ya put in it? If I burp now, this place is gonna burn down," McCormick said around another mouthful of popcorn.

"Now you're cookin'!"

THE END


End file.
